Post by Joliette Thorne on Oct 17, 2008 7:29:36 GMT -5
-- Bridge Across The Void--
It'd started after she left the Moor's apartment, wandering streets now "day-lit" by the waning moon and gingerly touching this bruise and that as she did so. She wasn't armed enough for this. The backstreets were not the ones she remembered, and not all of their denizens revered Vailkrin's unspoken Mistress as did those in the rebuilt sections of town. Down there, in the seedier district, she was just another female, and one that wandered alone. She wasn't as nervous as any other might have been, assured of her own prowess, but still, the odd ticking that had followed her for most of the way had her on tenterhooks, and she even broke her stoic pace to look around now and then. "Stop it." she growled to herself, inwardly. "Look like prey." But it was incessant, and growing louder as she reached the more civilised bustle of Hemlock Way. Tene could not help picking up speed, her own heels adding to the unnerving metronome of sound following. At last, as she rounded the corner closest to the Corpse, she'd broken into a run, eager to reach the tavern and snatch up some decent weapons in case she needed them. Chastising herself for going out so poorly armed in the first place, the necromancer would erupt from the pub laden with knives, a sword, what looked like a small, wrist-strapped crossbow. A stubby shield snatched from a dwarvish patron too, and his curses followed her out, to where the ticking had grown to a near unbearable pitch. "What are you? Show yourself!" It was wearing on her now. In reply, it only --moved-- toward the bridge, fading slightly, a hint of mocking laughter in it. And then, from behind her burst from apparently nowhere a bat-swarm of leather-winged and snapping demons. Panic galvanised Tene to a sprint toward the bridge, really her only course unless she brought the swarm back to the pub. Feet planted on the black stone, when she reached it, her mind was awhirr with a plan to send the self-resurrected hellspawn to... where they came from, en masse. The sky was black with them, the air about her a fizzle of sparks and weak sprays of fire, and a few even risked experimental swoops that had handfuls of hair snatched and tugged, claws lashing for eyes, only to leave shallow scratches on pale flesh. Tene dispatched several, before a tumble of archaic words were snarled over her lips... To anyone else, it'd seem the vampiress had lost her mind, utterly. Either that, or they'd be wrapped in their own version of this nightmare illusion.
Maggotspawn. The thought became words that exited Deilakrion in a growl, as she skidded to a stop against another building wall to turn and look back the way she'd come. Where'd that other 'wolf come from? And for that matter -- the sock puppet had not run as she'd thought it would, and was instead suddenly attached to the beast's leg. "Stray!" She bellowed, and immediately started running back for some unknown and unfathomable reason. These were the days when she'd rather be off in a forest somewhere with easily recognized enemies and only her own skin to worry about, but the time to think about such things was assuredly not when she was about to foolishly attack some freakish thing. Daggers out and glinting, Mahri's form was a glimpse of color and then she was yelling. "HaaaAAARGH!" Clipped the tail of the thing, crouch, feet first slide beneath --grab Stray! -- and come out the other side to be face up and facing the monstrosity before her. "Maggot--" One choice: move.
Misha flies down the alleys of the Dark City with quickened steps, as if when she stopped her flight there would be quicksand beneath to swallow her whole. The entire city seemed awash with terrors, shadows around every corner; demons on every wall. She glanced back and forth, up and down, trying to survey the entirety of the alley with a glance, if she looked the wrong direction or lost her alertness for even an instant it could spell certain demise for the elfess. She tried to remember which way she had last heard a voice, or seen the woman from before, but it was a blur of directions. In this mist north was east and right was left. She gave a shout, unknowing if it was to attract friend or foe, "Is anyone out there?", she continues down the alley, thinking she saw another, but it again was only shadows within the fog to Misha's blurred eyes, still injured from earlier in the day.
Vaelustil had simply been strolling towards the Corpse, as is his wont, half the day. However, as he approached the far side of the bridge opposite Vailkrin's city limits, he can't help but let his eyes flit to where the five drow had planned their ambush against him. He shakes his head at that memory, a sigh passing from his lips...at least, until he sees a figure at the other end of the bridge, apparently fighting nothing in the air. "Who th-...Tenebrae?" Ah, the wonders of drowish vision, impeccable in the dark. And so, he calls out to her, the obvious question clear in his tone. "Tenebrae! Just what are yo-!...By Cire..." That trailing curse is accompanied with wide eyes, the drow's mind dragged into Tenebrae's illusion, only that he sees an army of drow coming from every door and alley way, stalking towards himself and his sire with weapons glinting in the moonlight. Drawing his sword, he rushes forward to defend, or so he thinks, his 'hapless' leader.
Mahri shook her head, wolf ears flopping slightly as she tried to get the fog to lift. Another shift. Oh this was getting painful, and the woman hadn't anything to cover herself with. This fight..was going to do some damage. Groaning as the last of the change faded, the woman pushed herself up to her feet, swaying only slightly, and that was enough to capture the monster's attention. Drawing in a deep breath, Mahri began an incantation, calling to the earth and her creatures. Bugs, of all kinds, shapes, colors and sizes rushed from the ground at her feet, silvery vines snaked their way past the lycan. They would be used to bind that hulking figures pincers. They twined and twisted, knotting as they worked, and the bugs swarmed, covering it in a living blanket. This would have to be enough to allow Creature her escape, and that chattering sock-thing too.
Duck, weave, slash... The screeching of the fanged, demonic horde filled the air, as did the whoosh and flutter of diving wings, and Tenebrae was still chanting, the tongue-twisting syllables cried out even as she chopped and shot and ... she was losing ground, forced into the center of the structure. WHY hadn't she called for help, at the tavern? Too much of her lingering human conscience, likely, now damned with the same curses she'd pause in her incanting to spit at those hellspawn that got too close. The last of the spell uttered, she waited impatiently for her "cavalry" thus summoned to arrive, realising she was sorely outnumbered and vulnerable here, above the Gorge. To the seven hells with saving folk, she should have roused the whole bloody town! Chop, slash, the whine of short, punchy arrows... and, abruptly, about the time her own name sprang over Vael's lips-- came her reprieve, as stone groaned, cracked, splintered. The "gargoyles" decorating the bridge had been summoned, as was their purpose, to defend Vailkrin against attack. But they, in their dumb golem-like awareness, could sense no other presence but the one who'd summoned them... and Vael... and several shadow-clad figures invisible to all but the vengeful stone constructs, too dim to be fooled by illusions.
Kasyr was day-dreaming, or as close as one could when it was the evening. The point remained, the tiefling’s attention was relatively indisposed of at first- which was likely how he ended up anywhere in the vicinity of that bridge in the first place. Somewhere in the twisted happenstance that seemed to compromise his fate, it simply seemed fixed that every time a form of reunion was on the horizon- something had to horribly wrong. Maybe it was something in the air, a certain turbulence in the emotions that the hybrid could taste on the wind- more than likely, it was the grind of stone which served to shatter the sweet reverie he'd fallen into. There was just something distinctly hard to miss about all the ornaments on a bridge suddenly rousing from their 'petrified' slumber- a something which was compounded further by Joliette and a vaguely familiar person seeming whipped into a frenzy- too busy fighting their own shadows to notice... Well, that was the trick to it, wasn't it? The very moment he tread upon the bridge, a certain awareness hit him; creeping up from every shadow, slipping free from nook and crevice in a burlesque show of nightmarish distortions of light and darkness- a perfect reproduction of something he'd seen once before. And yet he didn't have the tongue to curse out Vuryals name; instead the hiss of blackened steel blade which slithered from Tattoos into solidity and the scrape of metal against the bridge.. These were the form in which his curse came. Vengeance shifted in the form of raw fury- wicked retribution to be wrought on every shadow which crept near him as he sought to weave and wind his way towards Joliette. Instructions, leadership- something was sought.
Deilakrion would cradle the sock to her breast a moment, as she watched the beast gradually be covered in. . .things. Bugs. Nasty stuff. Beyond, the wolf-woman was channelling. At a less hectic moment, Deilakrion would have raised an eyebrow in amusement. But, at the time, she had better things to do. She thrust the sock from her, "Call Monster. I owe him; have Monster take Stray to fierce hunter and explain! Move!" The sock had no time to protest, for Deilakrion gave it another shove for emphasis. The woman had the beast under control, but that was not what Deilakrion was after, golden eyes alight with fierce anger. It was no longer enough to tell. No, it was time to track down where the scum had come from. Her nose had sealed itself, and she could catch enough smells to pick up the trail. It was time to hunt. She took off into the alleys, and disappeared.
Misha continues her path, the end of the alley now within her sights; the light at the end of the tunnel, or the entrance to the chamber of -real- horrors? She ran at an almost impossible pace to the end of the alleyway, she knew it was nothing but wild fancy, but the buildings seemed to get closer and closer to her person as she continued, threatening to close in and crush her very bones between them. Her feet flew with wings like the very hounds of hell were upon her with snapping jaws at her heels until a repugnant crunch resounded through the air. Misha did not dare to look down, but as soon as she took another step the crunching grew louder and she peered into the swirling buzzing at her ankles. Insects. A myriad of insects. She quashed the urge to vomit on sight and picked up her feet, trying to keep the creatures off of them with unreasonable flailing. She saw the gargoyles and several others appearing locked in epic battle with none but themselves. She remained perplexed until she herself reached the bridge, a seeming portal into mad hallucinations. She saw swooping dragons, all hungry for her blood. Is this what they were all fighting? But none were looking in her direction, she dove to the ground to avoid a narrow swoop of dagger-like wings as one of her demons tried to take a chunk of her flesh with it into the air.
Vaelustil almost fell over his own feet as the gargoyles started moving. What surprises -didn't- this town hold? First mass drow, now gargoyles? What next? "Bah," he grumbles, moving on for the drow first, using his own vampiric nature over their collective drowish nature...and with him being one of both, he certainly has the edge over one or two, perhaps even three. But this is a bloody army, for Cire's sake! He's certainly hard pressed. One of the gargoyles, unknowing of the illusions, suddenly flies at Vael, thinking him the enemy Tenebrae summoned it to fight, and that only complicated matters for Vael. Poor drow. Now he had to worry about casting while fighting to counter the blasted stone guardians. What a day this is.
Mahri let the ravenous bugs and the restraining vines do their job. In and out, a tidal wave of beetles, ants, worms..things that ate the dead, and some that ate the living swarmed over the illusionary thing. Turning on her heels, Mahri ran the other direction. She was not prepared for, nor remotely interested in what lay ahead. However, the way out was not what she found, instead she found herself on the bridge. Her senses must really be addlepated to have let her get so lost. While the others were in their own hell, ducking away from unseen things, the lycan sniffs the air, testing it for ..something. That stench was back. Not as strong but there, which means her nose was working again. Then, an underlying scent caught her..forest and beasts..wolves to be exact, and she knew this wolf's scent as well as she knew her own. Crouching, a hulking figure stepped from the shadows. Big, with hungry eyes and dripping jowls. It was the thing that had bitten Mahri so many decades ago and it still brought a shiver of fear racing down her spine. Shaking her head, more blood-sucking bugs flipped out. It couldn't be real, yet..it seemed to be. Closing her eyes, she refuses to look at the thing, the wolf, and nearly yelped when it's claws raked over her shoulder, leaving deep wells of blood to rise to the surface. She took action then, rolling the opposite direction and at the same time reaching for the weapon she didn't have with her..The gargoyles were paid no attention. And wouldn't be given a second thought unless they decided to attack her as well.
Tenebrae barely had the wit to recognise first one, then another familiar face; Vael, the elf girl who'd helped at Caedan's funeral, the wolfess... and Kasyr, whose blade she narrowly ducked as the tiefling swung at a "demon".. or a "shadow" in his own mind. The attack on Vael was sighted as she wheeled, sword at the ready at the sound of the clash. Her lungs sucked in air that reeked of demon-flesh and fire, emerging as a bellowing command that the gargoyle heeded... if barely. The stone creature swivelled its black neck, maw a rictus of rage, but fell back to continue its useless swoop with the others. Their purpose unfulfilled, so far, the gargoyles were rapidly losing adhesion to the spells that kept them loyal to the necromancer, and Tenebrae could only wonder in dismay as to --why-- they were not attacking the demon horde, despite her screamed orders -- which only served to annoy and confuse the dull-witted golems. "Vael! Here! ... Kas!" A fresh attack loomed from the west, with more and more demons surging onto the bridge now. She hadn't brought so many back... had she? No time for thought, though. Not with this many enemies on the loose. Soon, she was enmeshed in a fight with a massive, horned thing that was pushing her toward the bridge's carven edge.
Kasyr couldn't help but grin madly as his bastard sword, hefted with strength both vampiric and demonic in nature, hewed through a twilit monstrosity- sending darkness cascading over his blade in either direction; an eerie silence following the viscous things demise. To him, this battle was a war upon a ravenous dark, one which produced no sound save the shrieks of it's victims- of pain and frustration. Even as he recovered from a thrust which sent his mutable weapon, now in the guise of a Nodachi, through a pair of the soundless entities- he couldn't help but hiss with a certain malcontent. After all, a fight waged on the very manifestation of the evening, one where the darkness spilled out in seemingly endless waves, was disheartening even to him; Conqueror of the supposed Dragon of all Dragons. And again that odious weapon of his shifted, a sudden sibilant shriek ripping through the air with fury as it took upon the guise of a broad sword- the likes of which the tiefling would send slamming through the back of Tenebrae’s Assailant- before the tiefling simply carried on in the direction she was being coaxed towards. He was intent on at least ensuring that if he was to succumb to greater numbers before he could find a source... At the very least, it would be a long and hard fight before they would manage, if their means of access were limited to a degree. ...Though hell if his coat wasn't well on it's way to being ruined again. He didn't even know when he had picked up that gash on his sleeve.
Misha jolts up from the ground as the insects begin to swarm her wildly. The sights before her eyes have overwhelmed her senses to overload; the fighting abounds chaotically from all angles, she could not discern any particular friend or nemesis amongst the din of swords clashing, chanting and gargoyles shrieking. She stares at the horror of it all for a moment before the swarm overtakes her and it is now a fight for her own life amongst all the illusory enemies turned real. Her staff at the ready she focuses inward, drawing on some of the very gravel for shrapnel against the enemies farther off and simply taking an encompassing swing at those that got too close for her magic to be effective. What sanity could possibly bloom from this pandemonium was yet to be seen.
Vaelustil turns towards Tenebrae's call, though he's hard pressed by his own illusion and kept from her. He lets out a bellow of rage as he watches her backing, backing, and further still, only to fall over the edge. He could have sworn he heard the yammering of a particular sock puppet following her, as well. Fighting off what drow he can, he practically roars out a spell, and the clouds above bend to the will of his castings, chaos taking its hold on the sky and loosing purple-hued lightning, which strikes at the ground and bridge around the group...strangely enough to strike one of the shadow gnomes causing the illusion, and thus revealing the source and weakening the magics, if just a little. Cursing, he turns on his illusion, realizing it for what it is - though smart enough not to think it can't hurt him - and makes his way towards the fallen illusionist's body. "Someone check over the bridge edge for Tenebrae!" he shouts, practically making it an order.
Mahri swings her head around, half formed into the features of the wolf before she calms herself, thus allowing the beast to subside and rest once more. Her ears, above the din of steel clashing and gargoyles becoming restless, thirsting for the blood promised them in battle, heard Tenebrae's call. She heard the vampires screams of outrage, she also heard the snarling madness of her own illusion. This time, she managed to evade the next swing, not like she had as a child when the real wolf had caught her. Scrambling between the warped things legs, the nude female races towards the three on the bridge, already power lifting her hair into tangled currents around her face and body. Bare feet hardly feel the bite of the ground that races beneath them, but she skids to halt, taking off a layer or so of skin in the process, just in time to see Tenebrae plunge over the edge of the bridge, while at the same moment that chattering puppet leapt after the vampire..screaming incoherently even as he too fell. Heaving huge breaths, the lycan turns towards the other males, ducking and twisting to avoid being sliced by their rather lethal blades. With a growl and curse, Mahri rushes to the edge of the bridge, looking down into what could only be described as a void..yet the scent..yes, that putrid scent lingered there and she was about to follow Tenebrae down into it.
Tenebrae shrieked, indeed, as her demonic assailant swiped a massive, razor-tipped paw toward her face, leaving her no choice but to lose her head - quite literally - or risk the free-fall into the near-bottomless gorge below. She had one plan of action only open to her, and it was a risky one, at that. Her scream, diminishing as she was lost to sight, a flutter of scarlet and black, and her white limbs flailing, was a desperate command for the gargoyle that'd attacked Vael, a summons shrieked at the top of lungs over-filled by the whistling winds of merciless gravity. Down, down, she plummeted, believing for a moment that this was the end of her tenure on life, or as such of it as she had. Momentum increased, velocity.... hair whipped in a blinding flurry, and she could swear she heard a thin, reedy voice piping through the roar of it all. "Blast and botheration, we'll be unknit!" It was Stray, who'd unbeknownst to the necromancer, did his own wee best to prevent her fall, having slipped up to the bridge quite on his own accord and unseen in the ensuing mayhem. Above, shadows loomed; first, shocked faces peering over the edge and next -- at last, the golem had heeded her order, the black-limbed leonine form arced down, knifing the air as it plunged after her. Mercy was, she had not had her hair cut in a very long time. That swathe of black tendrils. pluming in the winds, was grasped in a thick stone claw. Her fall came to an abrupt and painful end, mid-air, her hold on the gargoyle as tenuous as its on hers, and Stray was clung to one slim ankle like a panicked limpet. As the construct flapped upward, she could hear the clash continuing on the bridge. "Let the gargoyles take you!" This was hollered as loudly as she could holler it. Hopefully, the golems did what they were told, and swung the rest of the crew to relative safety, into the wide maw of the Gorge. Hopefully, the others had heard her, and would acquiesce to being grabbed and lifted, risk the potential for the bridge's strange guardians to fail them, let them fall to fathomless depths. Hopefully.
Kasyr had a slight problem; one which wasn't the situation, though it certainly was a poor one. No, this problem stemmed from what his temperament could precipitate him to do- one which came to fruition when Tenebrae disappeared over the side of the bridge albeit his best efforts to protect her. The shriek of rage that followed was formless, lacking any sort of definition beyond the simple guttural hatred it contained. One which manifested clearly with the violence Gospel found itself cleaving through the air- a broad radius of shattered shadowed parodies returning to the darkness that spawned them, a forced sacrificial offering of space which the hybrid would immediately put to use. He was heedless, deaf to any noise that ruptured from the chasm- single-mindedly focused upon a purpose given onto himself as his movements became a blur. It was subconscious now, the way the turbulent emotions on the bridge were stolen, those which lingered and surrounded the area drawn into the hybrid to grant him the speed and strength necessary to quite neatly tackle into one of the airborne gargoyles. Gargoyles which moments before had deemed it fit to attack someone that was Joliette’s ally. Whatever furious cacophony It's roar might have proved to be- the deafening scrape of metal through stone proved all the much louder- the surnaturally dense blade of Gospel in it's broadsword guise managing to crush and cleave it's way through the damnable 'construct'. And yet, it's purpose was not quite fulfilled- no, it's humble calling as debris upon the bridge was hastened as it was turned into a temporary footstool for the enraged hybrid- his unnatural alacrity allowing him to ricochet unto a gargoyle he deemed a much more viable target for his intentions. A Gargoyle that had its back turned to him- and could do very little when the gauntleted form of Gospel crushed its way into one of it's wings, and forced it up. And that was the plan~ Or lack thereof. A sense of conviction and certainty- his duty to check on and protect Joliette...to force both himself and the gargoyle downwards in the hope he could catch up to his 'fallen' leader. The certainty was more haphazard than anything, figuring once the wings were relinquished, the thing would endeavour to preserve itself- as a broken gargoyle couldn't kill more people. ...Mercurial temperaments were always a danger.
Misha cringes as a claw of some sort makes its sickening squelch into her shoulder, not a deep cut, but not something to chortle at in the least. She dives against a few more faceless enemies as she begins to grow weary and realizes that she cannot keep this pace for much longer. She hears various unintelligible screams throughout the battlefield and a woman's shriek overtakes the others, something about gargoyles; let them take you? What lunacy was she preaching?! Misha sees the jubilee of hideous winged creatures making swoops for the other seemingly allied people against the phantoms. A man in her immediate vicinity seemed to grow enraged and reckless at the disappearance of the woman over the cliff. She watches, unheeding the current maelstrom of enemies picking up speed, as if they were aware of the people's plan for a haphazard escape. When the man takes the plunge off the cliff with the gargoyle she begins to grow very aware of the diminishing number of "people" still upon the top-side of the cliff to dispatch of the enemies, soon she would be the sole warrior upon the cliff and at her fatigued state it would mean that this city of darkness was to become her grave, never to be discovered by her loved ones, the body too trampled and warped to even be recognized as humanoid. She shuddered deeply; this was not to be her fate; she'd sooner take a tumble off the cliff without any reassurance of life at the bottom than allow herself to be ravaged by fiends in the dark. She ran towards the cliff, batting off any nameless creature that dared step into her path. She looked off the cliff--by gods wasn't that a long drop??-- her vision blurs once again as she tries to find the bottom of this ridiculous ravine. A breath is held and in a moment the decision is made, but before she can make the plunge and decide her own fate a talon lodges itself into her shoulder once more and a shriek is echoed to match the one of the creature. She is carried aloft in the talons of one of those hideous gargoyles to the ravine that she was about to jump into herself. She supposes that this is a better landing idea than her previous plan.
Vaelustil grabs the gnome's collar and slams the head of its corpse against the ground in anger, but his rage seems to have put him in a bit of a situation. Closer and closer his illusion comes, weapons ready, but Vael is by an edge of his own. "I'd love to stay and play with your toys," he says to whatever illusionists remain, "but I have someone to check on." He's turning as he rises, his body catapulting from the bridge like a gymnast, a single drowish - "Streea!" - shouted as he descends. His storm, still raging over head, spawns a bone dragon, and down she plummets to catch her master. Who needs gargoyles, eh?
Mahri had been about to take that same plunge. Following the madman riding stone down, then the elf went next. Eyebrow's shoot up in surprise then wing down in a scowl as cold granite slips beneath her own arms, lofting her up and over the bridge. Of course, the lycan was not about to take that kind of treatment, no matter that she had heard Tenebrae's request to let the guardians take them down. Her feet kicked as she tried in vain to get a good swing up at the gargoyle. It wasn't long before she realized..if the thing did let her go, she was going to end up being a flat mess at the bottom. Ceasing her struggles, she does her best not to watch the ground as it rushed up to meet her. Seriously though, Mahri was getting tired of being in the mode of undress. When her feet touched down, she would go off to make the change she needed, returning after much popping and stretching of bone and tendon in the guise of a black wolf. Much better to use her senses this way too. Easier to track, hunt..kill.
Darian draped, like a jack-pine with a loose knuckled grip, from the serrated edge of the wall, batting the passing limbs with his eyes like a feline God unrolling the sun of its twined beams in his play. Curious, that. And that. Questing for condor eggs in the great drop's disquiet, he was being he tailed by corpses, he was certain. He continued leaping down the crevasse, handhold to handhold, his palms raw with ripping into stone. He crouched on the jagged overhang which he had been dropping toward, he looked a little upward for things that bleed.
Tenebrae was cursing like a sailor jipped of his coinpurse by a tricky hoyden, hair tugged from its roots in places, her legs kicking to dislodge what she thought was some malicious imp. Stray held on, regardless, socky little arms twined hard about her ankle and not about to let go for love or ... whatever it was sock-puppets valued most. Her terror and rage were only assuaged minutely by the sight of the aerial menagerie above, glimpses of them gleaned through the spread of magically-lofted stone wings that were steadily lowering her into that endless drop. Endless... she reached up to grasp at rock-hewn talons, hauling herself up to relieve the pressure on her scalp, and that she may glance.... down. Nobody had any idea, really, what was down there, aside from the centuries' worth of skeletons collected, she gathered, at the bottom. If there was one. Where in the name of Sven's omnipotent underpants were they to go from here? Back to the demon horde? Not likely, she'd take her chances in the Void. Thus were her thoughts, when a black-clad, wildling figure was spied, scrambling to a jut of rock. A figure so odd, so oddly familiar... But she had no time to squint at it-- a sudden blur of blackstone and tiefling whumped past, in apparent freefall, blocking her view. "Kasyr!" She shouted a command, ordered the gargoyle to fly... to no avail. Had the golem-like creatures finally abandoned her control over them, for want of the fresh blood that sustained it? The others seemed fine, as their 'mounts' flapped and cracked in into formation around her. "Kassy!"
Kasyr can only offer a startled glance upwards as his 'wondrously' inventive plan meets it's glaring flaw- His currently accelerating self passing by Tenebrae like a some dismally poor impersonation of a shooting star. It was enough that he'd momentarily fall in a sort of stunned shock, a few more precious seconds passing by until he'd abruptly remember to let go of the wings. Immediately, the gargoyle would begin to pump it's wings- It's 'desire' to survive stemming from a necessity to follow Tenebrae’s commands...and more importantly, to murder something and gorge on it's blood. And just, as the hybrid counted on, the enchantment which allowed it flight started to slow it's ascent- though far more harshly than he'd predicted. That particular issue was further compounded by the fact that his attack on it's 'person' and it's desire for carnage registered him quite clearly as an enemy. And so, even as it began to rise up in the air, the gargoyle deviated from it's path- following up along the rockface in an attempt to skid itself alongside it- it's stone skin making it relatively impervious to the sort of detriment that this would cause. What it didn't count on however, was the gauntlet which had been formerly holding it's wing still winding it's way near it's back- to crush the stone at the base of it's right wing. Essentially, it was forced to remain in a crooked and faltering flight path along the wall- Unsteady enough that it was lacking any real force with which to crush the tiefling. And allowing him the means to repeat the action to it's other wing so that he could leap aside...and onto the rock face. Really, the planning pretty much ended there- The gauntleted form of Gospel at least allowing him to hang from an outcropping of rock due to being particularly useful at crushing into things and creating improvised hand holds. If only he had the words to curse.... Ascendi's be damned. All 9 of the damnable exiles, even.
Misha 's heart palpitates absurdly out of her chest as she is flung through the air, for carried wasn't quite the right word to describe this jerking, neck cracking motion that we were going to call being carried by these partly controlled fiends. Misha did not know what was worse: getting flung about by this stone monstrosity or fighting the illusory mob above. The creature was headed straight for the bottom of the ravine and Misha chose to examine the fine architecture on the gargoyle rather than the swiftly approaching floor. The odd thing was that the creature did not seem to be slowing to a halt and she was beginning to get alarmed at their pace when a piece of her own hair whipped around and almost blinded her. The landing was not to be called that in a history of landings; more of a cessation of movement due to an irremovable force presenting itself in front of the moving object; the ground vs. the gargoyle. The ground won this round and sent both Misha and the gargoyle sprawling in a heap of stone and flesh. No movement is detected for a worrisome amount of time as the shrapnel and dust find it in them to settle. Both herself and the gargoyle seem to move as one mass and as the gargoyle moves itself to sway and hover but a few feet above Misha's head, the only thing she can seem to do is sputter and try not to fall over again and look for any shred of recognition of this place. There seemed to be a slight problem with the gargoyles...The cursed winged fiend at her back seemed to shriek something awful and Misha found that she did not wish to turn around and figure out what it was screaming at so she took flight; her fatigued legs being less than useless on this uneven, unfamiliar terrain. She whizzes towards the only other people that she can discern amongst the chaos.
Streea slows almost suddenly, and it's only by her strong, draconic grip that Vaelustil isn't flung to the ground those last few meters. But Vael knows her tactics, by now. Already he's jumping from her loosening claw, landing in a crouch on the ground as his dragon companion shifts to her elven guise. He took a quick survey of the situation - Tene still on her way down, Kasyr on the rock face, the wolf, and the elven lass all accounted for - before he rises, his eyes on his sire's form as he awaits her at the bottom. "By the Spider Queen's blood," he curses, falling back onto very, very old habits, "may those damned midgets burn in the deepest pit of the hells."
Mahri 's snout is lowered, snuffling along the ground for any familiar scent. All she smelled was death, old blood, and an ancient magic at work in this place. The shuffling of stone on stone caught her attention, as did the hideously extended maw of the gargoyle who had brought her down. Just past him, the lycan took note of a skeletal dragon and her rider, having found their own way to the bottom of the void. However, it was only a glimpse as stone claws and teeth made an ascension towards the wolf. Intent on ripping her apart, of which Mahri was vehemently against. She had grown quite attached to claw, tooth and fur. She backs up..and up..and up, until that is her back paw seems to find nothing but..nothing. Simply air. With her hind end half on and half off the ledge she had ~thought~ was the bottom, Mahri scrambles to gain a firmer perch, all the while, the stony beast was coming closer.
Darian rolled pickled eyeballs in his fingers, swilled from his flask. The ledge he sat cross legged on slipped out from the rock's face like an eternally insatiate tongue, reaching for the labia of darkness. He was on the tip, swiveling his neck to follow the volley of fools hailing down upon him. Fur and scale, wrathful stone, flesh. Screaming, thinking, cursing. A thoroughfare to hell rarely sees such willing traffic. And an odd bellow like a mountain of loosing a war-cry of rock upon a village from above, the gargoyle whips itself in a whistling spiral, whipping with it a harried form by the hair, needing a little blood; downward the both of them, and Darian watches as they drop like spit from children guessing at how deep the void is. The gargoyle with its wings tucked into it coordinates its plummet with its claws directed at the ground, its blackstone muzzle staring at the rock which would crush the skull it gripped. Darian stood, capped his flask, adjusted his crotch, shook his hair and growled like a beast in need of a thorough flea-picking, standing directly beneath the meteoric pair's destined crater to be. 50 feet, he pulls his pick axe, 25 he sets into the stone - 5 feet and he swings, slipping the edge of the rusted tool a fold of hair, feels it cut, jerks the body with him as rolls feet from the crash, shards of livid statue prickling into him as though he were an arcane pincushion. Once more, the dust must settle, and we must wait to see the two within it.
Rhian came walking up the path through the dark city, black eyes darting around warily at every shadow, every corner, every figure who showed their face. Though finding the streets empty for the most part, the grip on her staff was more relaxed. The sudden shrieking in the distance made her steps all the faster in the direction leading out of the place. Soon she sped to a steady trot in the direction of the noise, some strange impulse driving her closer towards the action when reason would be making her take the graveyard route. The human’s grip on her staff shifts to two hands, bony fingers tightening so that the whites of her knuckles showed through the dark skin. Her trot accelerates into a head on run as the chaos grows louder and she looks back towards the road to see if anything had snuck up without her aware. Suddenly after turning a corner she finds herself airborne and a sharp stabbing in her still healing shoulder, only the other one burned to match. She shrieked loud enough to announce her presence all the forces gathered, however imaginary. How could they though, they were right in front of her-- and it was certainly hard getting over the piercing sensations coursing through her body. Even those in the gorge might faintly hear the cries, at least those of better hearing as the woman flailed about in the grip of her unknown assailant. Wide black eyes can only stare down at the incoming abyss as she whacked at where she thought the head of her captor would be with the wood of her overly large staff.
Bone.... what? It was all a clatter of white, a dark-clad figure set to its middle as Vael and Streea soared past to settle on what appeared a vast, wide ledge. The others, too, lofted.. or in Kasyr's case, careened.. to that apparent succour from horrid, splattering Death in the fathomless depths below. And not so much succour, for Kasyr, either. "Bloody tiefling..." Gritted fangs parted to allow the words, replied to in an angry squeak, "Die, we'll all die! For the love'o'sausage pie, woman, set me down!" Tene risked a glance at the ... puppet?... hanging from her foot, her face a mask of wry disbelief, but this was no time for pondering animate footwear. The fact that the gargoyles below were looking friskier -- and hungrier-- by the minute (aside from Kasyr's, which continued its fall until it was a vanishing speck). She'd open her mouth again, but this time it was to garble a welter of ancient spellwork, feeling even as she did so the weakening command she wielded over the golems. Perhaps they'd obey, and leave off their desire to eat their erstwhile passengers. Perhaps they would not. And poor Kasyr... his grip so tentative, it seemed. She ordered her gargoyle lower, lower, her plan to save the wretched part-imp from peril, but then a lithe creature sprang up from below, a black wing of motion, a darkling scar on the grey sky of rock and air surrounding, and Darian had her, and then she fell... minus a good two feet of hair -- and the gargoyle, which continued its mission, robotic thing it was. The stone beast descended beyond the lip of the ledge at the exact moment Tene and the King of Roads hit the ground in a puff and thump and tangle of snarling flesh. While the necromancer recovered her wits enough, and the air cleared enough, for her to lay eyes on her newest 'saviour', the gargoyle paused midair below the tiefling, its great gaunt head tilting up like a leonine cudgel. While Tene snarled again, and bunched a small white fist, the gargoyle flapped its stony wings madly, rocketing upward like.. well, like a stone, falling up instead of down. And about the same time that fist was swinging for Darian's chin, the gargoyle's head would slam like a rock hammer into the tiefling's behind, the gauntlet holding him implacably in place tearing off a great wedge of stone as he was -- if all went to plan -- bumped up and over the safer side of the outcropping to join the others.
Kasyr couldn't help but observe everything beneath him. Really, 'perched' as he was- he didn't exactly have that many other pastimes at his disposal. So, it was in his altogether awkward position that he gained a perfect view of Darian and Tenebrae’s wild little tumble- an incredulous guffaw all he could managed as he continued to try and shift into a good position. Most especially when Joliette’s former mount started to rise up to meet him. Really, after the treatment he got from the last one, he couldn't be blamed for his lack of trust in this particular entities approach- squirming, fidgeting and just about dislodging himself from the rockface before the gargoyle finishes the job for him- that upheaval of it's head sending him tumbling forward- to sprawl through the air on an awkward position onto the gargoyles pack- part way on and partway off. And from there? Well, unfortunately, suspicious leads to some particularly poor choices now and then- and unfortunately, the gargoyle was most definitely suspicious...! Thus, down went the tiefling and the creation of stone, partway from it's chosen descent- and partway from a sporadic gripping of one wing to ensure it couldn't guide him into a rock wall, or gain enough balance to shake him free. A pattern which continued until the pair would crash heavily into the ground- by which point it's usefulness was ended with a violent application of a quickly manifested Katana; Gospels final incarnation used to divide the statue neatly in two. ...Really, the tiefling would be fine then, he just needed a few moments to sit there and hyperventilate.
Misha wheezes and pants as she finds herself almost at the breaking point for running this night, it was like she was the jester-like hamster of the gods, 'Run little elfling', she could almost hear them chuckling derisively at her side cramp and ordering her to keep running at the wheel or die. She obeyed but made a mental note to not pray to those gods anymore. The low visibility of the ravine was not aiding her quest to find something, -anything- that she could use to find another person, or a way out, the only thing her eyes can detect is the dust settling and she hears only the screams of the others. She follows the screams as best she can before she hears a decidedly unhappy roar to her rear. Well, this just was not turning out to be her night, better luck next time they always say; that's if you're lucky enough to -get- a next time. She pauses in her flight for a moment, her lungs refusing to take in any more air on the run. The silence is deafening for a moment and all she can discern is the monstrous flapping of wings in the distance getting ever nearer and the urge to find the person who controls these bloodthirsty golems grows exponentially and somehow Misha finds the will to continue her sprint down the chasm at the subtle hinting persuasion of the gargoyle leering at her like a piece of pork. One never knows where one finds the strength to carry on in these rough times...The only thing in her repertoire that would be of -any- use here would be a little light, but she could not locate her staff and she hoped to all seven hells that she hadn't dropped it and that it was somewhere in this ridiculous pack of hers, sitting uselessly amongst the beef sausage while she ran for her life. The person who controlled these winged mongrels was going to get a strongly worded letter when it was all said in done. If Misha was not alive to deliver it then the woman would receive a stern haunting from her vengeful spirit.
Mahri watches in amazement as the thing she had dubbed Stoney in the recess of her mind, backed away, giving the lycan enough room to heave herself up onto the ledge. Taking the reprieve for what it was, she scanned the area for a way..off that didn't include going down. It wasn't long before she spotted the cave, not so cleverly hidden by scrub-brush. As she got closer to it though, she knew it would have been found anyway, what with the stench of trolls that wafted from the mouth. Edging her way in, her eyes quickly adjusting to the dark, Mahri made an interesting discovery. A Troll, asleep at his post. With a wolfish kind of grin, she slunk forward, working up a good lather around her muzzle. Foam began to drip..a great facsimile of a diseased beast she thought. Suddenly, she began a serious of growls, barks and yips, designed to startle the sentry awake. After that, before he could even form a coherent thought, the wolf was on him, nipping and snarling at his heels so that he stumbled back..back..and further til he emerged from the cave entrance. Darting this way and that, the wolf herded the troll towards the bloodlusting gargoyles. Oh, the took the offering. Finally, a tangible enemy to fight! To bleed, devour! The troll death cries echoed..and soon after, the thunder of many feet could be heard as what seems to be a company of trolls spills out of the cave. Mahri, in her great and infinite wisdom..finds a very safe place to hide before slinking back into the cave.
Vaelustil finally dislodges Streea from his back. "Damnit, woman, watch where you land." Streea, being Streea, finds the whole thing hilarious. Thankfully, Vael, being Vael, dismisses the bone dragon back to where she came from, grumbling all the while about annoying women. However, now that he's free of the gigantic bony hindside, he takes another look around, dusting off his pants. "No one got eaten, did they?"
Skyle had been wandering the Underdark for some time, seeking a way to leave when he stumbled upon something that could qualify as an exit: a tunnel; yes, and there was light at the end! Or so he thought. Truth be told, the light was an odd color, but what the hell, why not follow it? The journey was tedious, marked by tight squeezes and close calls, but Skyle, in the end, had ascended. At least he was a tad closer to the surface. Light still led his way, but it became more distinct as he drew closer; he had made a mistake. A multitude of souls lit where he now was, and the owners of those souls gave naught but a snarl towards his presence. This Paladin, obviously, was not in the Graces of his God. Trolls, they were, a mass of them. "Err. Suppose you could not eat me, mates?" was the question that left his mouth, nearly rhetorical in nature. How lucky could one man be?
A flash of petite fist - before it bit of nothing, some maimed fools, and a cavernous recess in the nothing, resembling a bald spot on a moor's skull in the midst of night black as leprous limbs. After the fist, a flash of white like the moon came and left and time fumbles its attentionspan, after the fist - after it trolls, trolls pouring forth like restless pupae nursed into hastening vermin from a nest of carrion. The Gargoyles wing loops of homicidal ecstasy and collect in concert at the extent of their whorl, before pillaging the horde, rumbling bodies over edge, sucking puss and blood from diseased, brutish flesh, in general creating of the charge a flow like wine which overtops the lip, bristles down your neck, and flows on. Darian was struck. The woman was spasmodically flurrying into him. Trolls were raging into helter skelter band. He stood somewhat like an impatient forest before a dulled axe. "MAYAH UHTKAH, MAYAH UHTKAH, MAYAH UHTKA MAYAH UHTKA" The trolls shrieked, shuffling to the ledges to the brim, killing each other to stay on as more piled out to overcome all who stood against them. Darian, at the tip, stood still like a plague with no wind to carry it. He did not lift one finger, he did not lift a brow.
Rhian :: As the woman had been whacking away, at the head of the stone flyer, her flailing motions surprisingly hitting their mark as she spied the dark chasm below and shrieked away. Of course who would expect a human female to react any other way but scream her lungs out in the face of certain doom? It was soon that the creature neared the ledge where other figures stood. Who knows if the creature had tired of being repeatedly thwacked in the head with a large stick or had ulterior motives, but soon she was tossed like child’s play toy into the nearest figure running into the mess of things. Part of her might sigh in relief that the majority of the damage caused by the fall was absorbed by the fleshy cushion she’d landed upon and probably rolled off of to get only cuts and scratches to her limbs, tearing her dress up something awful. However, the dominant thought on hand was that the cushion that part of her had been so thankful for was green and snarled…With a shriek the quarterstaff was sent rabidly whacking once more, catching the single enemy off guard before she ran head on into the fray, more of the similar strategy taking place as she headed deeper into the chaos.
SMACK. THUNK. Tene's fist rose and fell like a pale -- and rather ineffective white hammer on the face, the torso, the limbs of the Wanderer who'd abandoned her, though she had no real idea why, since a large portion of her admittedly errant psyche was rather glad to find him gone. But there was that other bit..... THUD... smack... poke? She ran out of steam and ire both about the time Vael spoke up, and a stumble of trolls shot from the cavern that had seemed to devour Mahri, the wolfess fleeing -- was she mad? -- into the maw of it, and Kas plopped on the ledge (after a short and ugly struggle) and right before Rhian was deposited amid them all. Darian was as unmoving as the gargoyles were not, precarious stance not hindered one bit by her pummelling, and Tenebrae followed his awful gaze toward the mayhem ensuing. All was blood, perhaps more rightly called ichor, as the gargoyles feasted savagely, and figures were milling about -- she glimpsed motion toward the back of the ledge, under the sheer wall's shadow, a man-sized thing, a pale thing... a man! "You there!" She shouted, to Skyle, who was about to be razored by the mandibles of one ghastly abortion of a gnomish experiment gone wrong. But he wasn't listening. A squeaky voice at her ankle said, "He's a goner, begorrah!" Tene frowned, her eyes drifting from her lower leg back to the King of Roads. "Shut up." This was muttered, no time to wonder how and where and why she had a sock puppet attached to her thus. Instead, her eyes levelled on Darian, no questions in them, only the one spoken: "Fancy lending a hand, then?" She was then in a sort of flight across the ledge to join the fray, a vicious blur that thankfully had armed herself well, though she'd lost the bow on the bridge. What the gargoyles didn't rend to bloody bits, Tene would hack at, her secret fright at her unexpected flying lesson channelled now to a less shameful emotion. She was hacking her way toward Misha, who wasn't faring all that well against the vile slavering morass of troll that loomed above her, and as her sword punctured its spine, she pointed toward the cavern, and Skyle, the man who stood at its lip staring like a stunned mullet at the carnage. "Run!" She could think of no safer place, the bulk of the troll-things having spilled out now and the ledge.. well, there was the end of that, in all other directions. The necromancer spared a glance over her shoulder to see how Vael, Streea and the others were doing, daggers flipped from their sheaths, shot out one after another to puncture ghastly eyes like tea-saucers full of custard, and throats rippling with pale wattles. The spell was slipping, now, and the gargoyles eyed the travellers with an akin hunger. And was... was that a HUMAN girl, in the middle of it all? "For the sake of.. bloody hell.... RUN! Get to the..." A massive paw clacked her upside the head, and all else was just a churchbell, tolling and tolling, as night fell in Tene's mind and all the stars came out to wave.
Skyle was, quite literally, looking into the eyes of a demon, and backed up slowly; what else was he to do, tarnish the sword strapped to his back? To prevent being mauled, consumed, and ultimately digested, Sky turned heel and ran into the depths of the cavern. Of course, he didn't stop to look back until he reached a point at which he felt safe; the abomination seemed to lose him. Hopefully, at least.
Kasyr was seemingly oblivious to the utter pandemonium that had descended upon that small stretch of rock- his emotions continuing to churn internally as the breaths came faster, the hybrids course of action only serving to further agitate him. And yet, the experiment continued- his anxiety and rage growing to such a point that it bubbled over- and the shadows about the hybrid grew fluid once more. This time however, the aberrations were not of another’s creation- were not the diabolical reincarnations of a memory long past~ No, this time the shadows which slipped from the hybrids being were something far more comforting. Emotions, twisted by Gospel, Solidified by intensity of thought and feeling; focused in a murderous desire unleashed upon the very first green abomination that made the mistake of rising a fist towards him. Kasyr didn't even move at first, simply staring at the troll those tendrils of darkness had twined within their grasp; those agitated breaths he still drew serving to do naught more than tighten the coils which ran round his unfortunate prey. And then, all at once, they began to pull in every direction- rending and twisting till flesh and sinew gave way with a sickening rips, and bone was forced to crack and pop. The travesty only lasted instants, but it was what he required to gain his calm. All the rage seeping out in a physical outlet, rippling forth across the ground in tendrils and barbs-gouging, shredding and tearing at whatever it can grasp- until a forced tranquillity of sorts could be instilled. It would only be then that the shadow would recede again, overlapping the shadows in the hybrids coat as he began to move again. It was disorienting at first, truly, trying to grow accustomed to the pulse of the crowd- to the push of frenzied bodies both flesh and stone. He was seeking the outskirts really- pressing and dashing around those floundering corpses of those soon to be dead in an effort to find his way to Joliette’s voice. Well, that- and seeing just how much chaos he could wreak in the crowd with the occasional swing of Gospel in the form of a broadsword, it's surnatural denseness {Which he could avoid from being bound to the blade} working wonders in causing disruptions whenever he could get a moments notice to swing it. In a pinch, the blunt trauma served nicely, as well. ...Damnedest thing though, he couldn't see or hear her any longer.
Gradually, like an outbreak of acne, a change came over the fray. First, claws became red as though painted by an invisible flock of unruly fey, melded into each other, swelled into bulbous, clowny shoes. A paw grew into a hoof. An eye turned to glass and swirled willy nilly in its socket; some took blows and shifted like wax, melting, condensing into puddles, reforming variously: There was, at the end of it, amidst the medley, to name a few: a centaur, a gingerbread man, a pile of pulsing organs, a mime gesturing a noose around his neck, a hooker with two teeth and a third nipple on her brow, a clown juggling fetuses, severed heads of saints speaking in tongues, and any who were still occupied in the kill found they were thrashing and tearing into one another with bouquets of pollen vomiting flowerets, bashing into each other with massive clubs of sunflowers, knifing with lily, slitting with eglantine, spiked with poppy - until with such an upheaval of petals and pollen dust ensconced about them they all fell to sneezing and tickling and guffawing and wheezing like old men with black lungs at a dirty joke; the populous of the battle now populating what seemed to be the daydream of a raving deity. Darian stepped between this like fate, unseen, unknown, unassumed, to be discussed over mead and flowery verse some years down the winsome road. He came to an old troll untouched as the changeling horde of warriors and gargoyles had been. He began grumbling the guttural slur, a discussion, muttering the throaty argot and nodding and cajoling. He nodded, yes, deeply, looked for all the world to know the concern of a fresh widow at the beast, laughed twice like a punch-drunk cannonade with him, and slammed his skull in a deafening crack into the troll's, with a conversational finality. He handed him a brace of condor eggs, as though fulfilling a promise, turned and strode to the scene, where he raised his eyebrows once, and all was as it was - trolls and gargoyles and warriors poised to maim like woven tapestries in the gut of a distant castle. "Agulah Grimorah. Greloogah azloig t'dramel. Lunk." The trolls began to file back into the cave. The gargoyles sat smacking robotically at their lips. Darian turned to the others - "I had business with these trolls. You have half an hour to recollect and leave. I do not recommend the cliffs." He turned, and paced into the cavern like a clock into infinity.
Rhian fought, whacked, thwacked, and somehow survived the entire encounter with a bleeding gash or two and a menagerie of little cuts and bruises along her body. The woman, already heaving an on guard gapes at the colorful display of the battle's ending and stares, dumbstruck as it enfolds, only to send the attackers filing back from whence they came. She stares in awe at he who'd put a stop to the chaos and she gulps down what little sense she had left and went limping after him into the tunnels, not even fathoming the cliffs as an option.
Kasyr was heaped in ichor and bits of flesh- though not all of it belonged to the trolls. Somewhere along the way, he'd been bitten, clawed, grappled ( With a trolls dismembered hand still clutching to his coat)...and yet, he had still been moving- fighting in some vain attempt to make heads or tails of the situation and come to a resolution. Fighting, stabbing, beating, Pollinating...Well Scratch that last one, as it didn't exactly happen. Although one could suppose on some degree or another it really did. Really, it wasn't the sort of thing that one split hairs over when dually aware of a troll behind ones back with an upraised club, the only thing between a tiefling and a forcible rearrangement of ones faculties being an improvised. Kasyr would simply look thankful, one brief moment of relief all he was allowed to feel before he became further aware of two facts. The first being that there was no Joliette to be seen or heard, and the second being that Darian was already gone, steps having ticked a steady pace into the caverns maw~ Where the hybrid assumed he needed to be. ...Because he had obviously not learned a single lesson as to assuming.
.
It'd started after she left the Moor's apartment, wandering streets now "day-lit" by the waning moon and gingerly touching this bruise and that as she did so. She wasn't armed enough for this. The backstreets were not the ones she remembered, and not all of their denizens revered Vailkrin's unspoken Mistress as did those in the rebuilt sections of town. Down there, in the seedier district, she was just another female, and one that wandered alone. She wasn't as nervous as any other might have been, assured of her own prowess, but still, the odd ticking that had followed her for most of the way had her on tenterhooks, and she even broke her stoic pace to look around now and then. "Stop it." she growled to herself, inwardly. "Look like prey." But it was incessant, and growing louder as she reached the more civilised bustle of Hemlock Way. Tene could not help picking up speed, her own heels adding to the unnerving metronome of sound following. At last, as she rounded the corner closest to the Corpse, she'd broken into a run, eager to reach the tavern and snatch up some decent weapons in case she needed them. Chastising herself for going out so poorly armed in the first place, the necromancer would erupt from the pub laden with knives, a sword, what looked like a small, wrist-strapped crossbow. A stubby shield snatched from a dwarvish patron too, and his curses followed her out, to where the ticking had grown to a near unbearable pitch. "What are you? Show yourself!" It was wearing on her now. In reply, it only --moved-- toward the bridge, fading slightly, a hint of mocking laughter in it. And then, from behind her burst from apparently nowhere a bat-swarm of leather-winged and snapping demons. Panic galvanised Tene to a sprint toward the bridge, really her only course unless she brought the swarm back to the pub. Feet planted on the black stone, when she reached it, her mind was awhirr with a plan to send the self-resurrected hellspawn to... where they came from, en masse. The sky was black with them, the air about her a fizzle of sparks and weak sprays of fire, and a few even risked experimental swoops that had handfuls of hair snatched and tugged, claws lashing for eyes, only to leave shallow scratches on pale flesh. Tene dispatched several, before a tumble of archaic words were snarled over her lips... To anyone else, it'd seem the vampiress had lost her mind, utterly. Either that, or they'd be wrapped in their own version of this nightmare illusion.
Maggotspawn. The thought became words that exited Deilakrion in a growl, as she skidded to a stop against another building wall to turn and look back the way she'd come. Where'd that other 'wolf come from? And for that matter -- the sock puppet had not run as she'd thought it would, and was instead suddenly attached to the beast's leg. "Stray!" She bellowed, and immediately started running back for some unknown and unfathomable reason. These were the days when she'd rather be off in a forest somewhere with easily recognized enemies and only her own skin to worry about, but the time to think about such things was assuredly not when she was about to foolishly attack some freakish thing. Daggers out and glinting, Mahri's form was a glimpse of color and then she was yelling. "HaaaAAARGH!" Clipped the tail of the thing, crouch, feet first slide beneath --grab Stray! -- and come out the other side to be face up and facing the monstrosity before her. "Maggot--" One choice: move.
Misha flies down the alleys of the Dark City with quickened steps, as if when she stopped her flight there would be quicksand beneath to swallow her whole. The entire city seemed awash with terrors, shadows around every corner; demons on every wall. She glanced back and forth, up and down, trying to survey the entirety of the alley with a glance, if she looked the wrong direction or lost her alertness for even an instant it could spell certain demise for the elfess. She tried to remember which way she had last heard a voice, or seen the woman from before, but it was a blur of directions. In this mist north was east and right was left. She gave a shout, unknowing if it was to attract friend or foe, "Is anyone out there?", she continues down the alley, thinking she saw another, but it again was only shadows within the fog to Misha's blurred eyes, still injured from earlier in the day.
Vaelustil had simply been strolling towards the Corpse, as is his wont, half the day. However, as he approached the far side of the bridge opposite Vailkrin's city limits, he can't help but let his eyes flit to where the five drow had planned their ambush against him. He shakes his head at that memory, a sigh passing from his lips...at least, until he sees a figure at the other end of the bridge, apparently fighting nothing in the air. "Who th-...Tenebrae?" Ah, the wonders of drowish vision, impeccable in the dark. And so, he calls out to her, the obvious question clear in his tone. "Tenebrae! Just what are yo-!...By Cire..." That trailing curse is accompanied with wide eyes, the drow's mind dragged into Tenebrae's illusion, only that he sees an army of drow coming from every door and alley way, stalking towards himself and his sire with weapons glinting in the moonlight. Drawing his sword, he rushes forward to defend, or so he thinks, his 'hapless' leader.
Mahri shook her head, wolf ears flopping slightly as she tried to get the fog to lift. Another shift. Oh this was getting painful, and the woman hadn't anything to cover herself with. This fight..was going to do some damage. Groaning as the last of the change faded, the woman pushed herself up to her feet, swaying only slightly, and that was enough to capture the monster's attention. Drawing in a deep breath, Mahri began an incantation, calling to the earth and her creatures. Bugs, of all kinds, shapes, colors and sizes rushed from the ground at her feet, silvery vines snaked their way past the lycan. They would be used to bind that hulking figures pincers. They twined and twisted, knotting as they worked, and the bugs swarmed, covering it in a living blanket. This would have to be enough to allow Creature her escape, and that chattering sock-thing too.
Duck, weave, slash... The screeching of the fanged, demonic horde filled the air, as did the whoosh and flutter of diving wings, and Tenebrae was still chanting, the tongue-twisting syllables cried out even as she chopped and shot and ... she was losing ground, forced into the center of the structure. WHY hadn't she called for help, at the tavern? Too much of her lingering human conscience, likely, now damned with the same curses she'd pause in her incanting to spit at those hellspawn that got too close. The last of the spell uttered, she waited impatiently for her "cavalry" thus summoned to arrive, realising she was sorely outnumbered and vulnerable here, above the Gorge. To the seven hells with saving folk, she should have roused the whole bloody town! Chop, slash, the whine of short, punchy arrows... and, abruptly, about the time her own name sprang over Vael's lips-- came her reprieve, as stone groaned, cracked, splintered. The "gargoyles" decorating the bridge had been summoned, as was their purpose, to defend Vailkrin against attack. But they, in their dumb golem-like awareness, could sense no other presence but the one who'd summoned them... and Vael... and several shadow-clad figures invisible to all but the vengeful stone constructs, too dim to be fooled by illusions.
Kasyr was day-dreaming, or as close as one could when it was the evening. The point remained, the tiefling’s attention was relatively indisposed of at first- which was likely how he ended up anywhere in the vicinity of that bridge in the first place. Somewhere in the twisted happenstance that seemed to compromise his fate, it simply seemed fixed that every time a form of reunion was on the horizon- something had to horribly wrong. Maybe it was something in the air, a certain turbulence in the emotions that the hybrid could taste on the wind- more than likely, it was the grind of stone which served to shatter the sweet reverie he'd fallen into. There was just something distinctly hard to miss about all the ornaments on a bridge suddenly rousing from their 'petrified' slumber- a something which was compounded further by Joliette and a vaguely familiar person seeming whipped into a frenzy- too busy fighting their own shadows to notice... Well, that was the trick to it, wasn't it? The very moment he tread upon the bridge, a certain awareness hit him; creeping up from every shadow, slipping free from nook and crevice in a burlesque show of nightmarish distortions of light and darkness- a perfect reproduction of something he'd seen once before. And yet he didn't have the tongue to curse out Vuryals name; instead the hiss of blackened steel blade which slithered from Tattoos into solidity and the scrape of metal against the bridge.. These were the form in which his curse came. Vengeance shifted in the form of raw fury- wicked retribution to be wrought on every shadow which crept near him as he sought to weave and wind his way towards Joliette. Instructions, leadership- something was sought.
Deilakrion would cradle the sock to her breast a moment, as she watched the beast gradually be covered in. . .things. Bugs. Nasty stuff. Beyond, the wolf-woman was channelling. At a less hectic moment, Deilakrion would have raised an eyebrow in amusement. But, at the time, she had better things to do. She thrust the sock from her, "Call Monster. I owe him; have Monster take Stray to fierce hunter and explain! Move!" The sock had no time to protest, for Deilakrion gave it another shove for emphasis. The woman had the beast under control, but that was not what Deilakrion was after, golden eyes alight with fierce anger. It was no longer enough to tell. No, it was time to track down where the scum had come from. Her nose had sealed itself, and she could catch enough smells to pick up the trail. It was time to hunt. She took off into the alleys, and disappeared.
Misha continues her path, the end of the alley now within her sights; the light at the end of the tunnel, or the entrance to the chamber of -real- horrors? She ran at an almost impossible pace to the end of the alleyway, she knew it was nothing but wild fancy, but the buildings seemed to get closer and closer to her person as she continued, threatening to close in and crush her very bones between them. Her feet flew with wings like the very hounds of hell were upon her with snapping jaws at her heels until a repugnant crunch resounded through the air. Misha did not dare to look down, but as soon as she took another step the crunching grew louder and she peered into the swirling buzzing at her ankles. Insects. A myriad of insects. She quashed the urge to vomit on sight and picked up her feet, trying to keep the creatures off of them with unreasonable flailing. She saw the gargoyles and several others appearing locked in epic battle with none but themselves. She remained perplexed until she herself reached the bridge, a seeming portal into mad hallucinations. She saw swooping dragons, all hungry for her blood. Is this what they were all fighting? But none were looking in her direction, she dove to the ground to avoid a narrow swoop of dagger-like wings as one of her demons tried to take a chunk of her flesh with it into the air.
Vaelustil almost fell over his own feet as the gargoyles started moving. What surprises -didn't- this town hold? First mass drow, now gargoyles? What next? "Bah," he grumbles, moving on for the drow first, using his own vampiric nature over their collective drowish nature...and with him being one of both, he certainly has the edge over one or two, perhaps even three. But this is a bloody army, for Cire's sake! He's certainly hard pressed. One of the gargoyles, unknowing of the illusions, suddenly flies at Vael, thinking him the enemy Tenebrae summoned it to fight, and that only complicated matters for Vael. Poor drow. Now he had to worry about casting while fighting to counter the blasted stone guardians. What a day this is.
Mahri let the ravenous bugs and the restraining vines do their job. In and out, a tidal wave of beetles, ants, worms..things that ate the dead, and some that ate the living swarmed over the illusionary thing. Turning on her heels, Mahri ran the other direction. She was not prepared for, nor remotely interested in what lay ahead. However, the way out was not what she found, instead she found herself on the bridge. Her senses must really be addlepated to have let her get so lost. While the others were in their own hell, ducking away from unseen things, the lycan sniffs the air, testing it for ..something. That stench was back. Not as strong but there, which means her nose was working again. Then, an underlying scent caught her..forest and beasts..wolves to be exact, and she knew this wolf's scent as well as she knew her own. Crouching, a hulking figure stepped from the shadows. Big, with hungry eyes and dripping jowls. It was the thing that had bitten Mahri so many decades ago and it still brought a shiver of fear racing down her spine. Shaking her head, more blood-sucking bugs flipped out. It couldn't be real, yet..it seemed to be. Closing her eyes, she refuses to look at the thing, the wolf, and nearly yelped when it's claws raked over her shoulder, leaving deep wells of blood to rise to the surface. She took action then, rolling the opposite direction and at the same time reaching for the weapon she didn't have with her..The gargoyles were paid no attention. And wouldn't be given a second thought unless they decided to attack her as well.
Tenebrae barely had the wit to recognise first one, then another familiar face; Vael, the elf girl who'd helped at Caedan's funeral, the wolfess... and Kasyr, whose blade she narrowly ducked as the tiefling swung at a "demon".. or a "shadow" in his own mind. The attack on Vael was sighted as she wheeled, sword at the ready at the sound of the clash. Her lungs sucked in air that reeked of demon-flesh and fire, emerging as a bellowing command that the gargoyle heeded... if barely. The stone creature swivelled its black neck, maw a rictus of rage, but fell back to continue its useless swoop with the others. Their purpose unfulfilled, so far, the gargoyles were rapidly losing adhesion to the spells that kept them loyal to the necromancer, and Tenebrae could only wonder in dismay as to --why-- they were not attacking the demon horde, despite her screamed orders -- which only served to annoy and confuse the dull-witted golems. "Vael! Here! ... Kas!" A fresh attack loomed from the west, with more and more demons surging onto the bridge now. She hadn't brought so many back... had she? No time for thought, though. Not with this many enemies on the loose. Soon, she was enmeshed in a fight with a massive, horned thing that was pushing her toward the bridge's carven edge.
Kasyr couldn't help but grin madly as his bastard sword, hefted with strength both vampiric and demonic in nature, hewed through a twilit monstrosity- sending darkness cascading over his blade in either direction; an eerie silence following the viscous things demise. To him, this battle was a war upon a ravenous dark, one which produced no sound save the shrieks of it's victims- of pain and frustration. Even as he recovered from a thrust which sent his mutable weapon, now in the guise of a Nodachi, through a pair of the soundless entities- he couldn't help but hiss with a certain malcontent. After all, a fight waged on the very manifestation of the evening, one where the darkness spilled out in seemingly endless waves, was disheartening even to him; Conqueror of the supposed Dragon of all Dragons. And again that odious weapon of his shifted, a sudden sibilant shriek ripping through the air with fury as it took upon the guise of a broad sword- the likes of which the tiefling would send slamming through the back of Tenebrae’s Assailant- before the tiefling simply carried on in the direction she was being coaxed towards. He was intent on at least ensuring that if he was to succumb to greater numbers before he could find a source... At the very least, it would be a long and hard fight before they would manage, if their means of access were limited to a degree. ...Though hell if his coat wasn't well on it's way to being ruined again. He didn't even know when he had picked up that gash on his sleeve.
Misha jolts up from the ground as the insects begin to swarm her wildly. The sights before her eyes have overwhelmed her senses to overload; the fighting abounds chaotically from all angles, she could not discern any particular friend or nemesis amongst the din of swords clashing, chanting and gargoyles shrieking. She stares at the horror of it all for a moment before the swarm overtakes her and it is now a fight for her own life amongst all the illusory enemies turned real. Her staff at the ready she focuses inward, drawing on some of the very gravel for shrapnel against the enemies farther off and simply taking an encompassing swing at those that got too close for her magic to be effective. What sanity could possibly bloom from this pandemonium was yet to be seen.
Vaelustil turns towards Tenebrae's call, though he's hard pressed by his own illusion and kept from her. He lets out a bellow of rage as he watches her backing, backing, and further still, only to fall over the edge. He could have sworn he heard the yammering of a particular sock puppet following her, as well. Fighting off what drow he can, he practically roars out a spell, and the clouds above bend to the will of his castings, chaos taking its hold on the sky and loosing purple-hued lightning, which strikes at the ground and bridge around the group...strangely enough to strike one of the shadow gnomes causing the illusion, and thus revealing the source and weakening the magics, if just a little. Cursing, he turns on his illusion, realizing it for what it is - though smart enough not to think it can't hurt him - and makes his way towards the fallen illusionist's body. "Someone check over the bridge edge for Tenebrae!" he shouts, practically making it an order.
Mahri swings her head around, half formed into the features of the wolf before she calms herself, thus allowing the beast to subside and rest once more. Her ears, above the din of steel clashing and gargoyles becoming restless, thirsting for the blood promised them in battle, heard Tenebrae's call. She heard the vampires screams of outrage, she also heard the snarling madness of her own illusion. This time, she managed to evade the next swing, not like she had as a child when the real wolf had caught her. Scrambling between the warped things legs, the nude female races towards the three on the bridge, already power lifting her hair into tangled currents around her face and body. Bare feet hardly feel the bite of the ground that races beneath them, but she skids to halt, taking off a layer or so of skin in the process, just in time to see Tenebrae plunge over the edge of the bridge, while at the same moment that chattering puppet leapt after the vampire..screaming incoherently even as he too fell. Heaving huge breaths, the lycan turns towards the other males, ducking and twisting to avoid being sliced by their rather lethal blades. With a growl and curse, Mahri rushes to the edge of the bridge, looking down into what could only be described as a void..yet the scent..yes, that putrid scent lingered there and she was about to follow Tenebrae down into it.
Tenebrae shrieked, indeed, as her demonic assailant swiped a massive, razor-tipped paw toward her face, leaving her no choice but to lose her head - quite literally - or risk the free-fall into the near-bottomless gorge below. She had one plan of action only open to her, and it was a risky one, at that. Her scream, diminishing as she was lost to sight, a flutter of scarlet and black, and her white limbs flailing, was a desperate command for the gargoyle that'd attacked Vael, a summons shrieked at the top of lungs over-filled by the whistling winds of merciless gravity. Down, down, she plummeted, believing for a moment that this was the end of her tenure on life, or as such of it as she had. Momentum increased, velocity.... hair whipped in a blinding flurry, and she could swear she heard a thin, reedy voice piping through the roar of it all. "Blast and botheration, we'll be unknit!" It was Stray, who'd unbeknownst to the necromancer, did his own wee best to prevent her fall, having slipped up to the bridge quite on his own accord and unseen in the ensuing mayhem. Above, shadows loomed; first, shocked faces peering over the edge and next -- at last, the golem had heeded her order, the black-limbed leonine form arced down, knifing the air as it plunged after her. Mercy was, she had not had her hair cut in a very long time. That swathe of black tendrils. pluming in the winds, was grasped in a thick stone claw. Her fall came to an abrupt and painful end, mid-air, her hold on the gargoyle as tenuous as its on hers, and Stray was clung to one slim ankle like a panicked limpet. As the construct flapped upward, she could hear the clash continuing on the bridge. "Let the gargoyles take you!" This was hollered as loudly as she could holler it. Hopefully, the golems did what they were told, and swung the rest of the crew to relative safety, into the wide maw of the Gorge. Hopefully, the others had heard her, and would acquiesce to being grabbed and lifted, risk the potential for the bridge's strange guardians to fail them, let them fall to fathomless depths. Hopefully.
Kasyr had a slight problem; one which wasn't the situation, though it certainly was a poor one. No, this problem stemmed from what his temperament could precipitate him to do- one which came to fruition when Tenebrae disappeared over the side of the bridge albeit his best efforts to protect her. The shriek of rage that followed was formless, lacking any sort of definition beyond the simple guttural hatred it contained. One which manifested clearly with the violence Gospel found itself cleaving through the air- a broad radius of shattered shadowed parodies returning to the darkness that spawned them, a forced sacrificial offering of space which the hybrid would immediately put to use. He was heedless, deaf to any noise that ruptured from the chasm- single-mindedly focused upon a purpose given onto himself as his movements became a blur. It was subconscious now, the way the turbulent emotions on the bridge were stolen, those which lingered and surrounded the area drawn into the hybrid to grant him the speed and strength necessary to quite neatly tackle into one of the airborne gargoyles. Gargoyles which moments before had deemed it fit to attack someone that was Joliette’s ally. Whatever furious cacophony It's roar might have proved to be- the deafening scrape of metal through stone proved all the much louder- the surnaturally dense blade of Gospel in it's broadsword guise managing to crush and cleave it's way through the damnable 'construct'. And yet, it's purpose was not quite fulfilled- no, it's humble calling as debris upon the bridge was hastened as it was turned into a temporary footstool for the enraged hybrid- his unnatural alacrity allowing him to ricochet unto a gargoyle he deemed a much more viable target for his intentions. A Gargoyle that had its back turned to him- and could do very little when the gauntleted form of Gospel crushed its way into one of it's wings, and forced it up. And that was the plan~ Or lack thereof. A sense of conviction and certainty- his duty to check on and protect Joliette...to force both himself and the gargoyle downwards in the hope he could catch up to his 'fallen' leader. The certainty was more haphazard than anything, figuring once the wings were relinquished, the thing would endeavour to preserve itself- as a broken gargoyle couldn't kill more people. ...Mercurial temperaments were always a danger.
Misha cringes as a claw of some sort makes its sickening squelch into her shoulder, not a deep cut, but not something to chortle at in the least. She dives against a few more faceless enemies as she begins to grow weary and realizes that she cannot keep this pace for much longer. She hears various unintelligible screams throughout the battlefield and a woman's shriek overtakes the others, something about gargoyles; let them take you? What lunacy was she preaching?! Misha sees the jubilee of hideous winged creatures making swoops for the other seemingly allied people against the phantoms. A man in her immediate vicinity seemed to grow enraged and reckless at the disappearance of the woman over the cliff. She watches, unheeding the current maelstrom of enemies picking up speed, as if they were aware of the people's plan for a haphazard escape. When the man takes the plunge off the cliff with the gargoyle she begins to grow very aware of the diminishing number of "people" still upon the top-side of the cliff to dispatch of the enemies, soon she would be the sole warrior upon the cliff and at her fatigued state it would mean that this city of darkness was to become her grave, never to be discovered by her loved ones, the body too trampled and warped to even be recognized as humanoid. She shuddered deeply; this was not to be her fate; she'd sooner take a tumble off the cliff without any reassurance of life at the bottom than allow herself to be ravaged by fiends in the dark. She ran towards the cliff, batting off any nameless creature that dared step into her path. She looked off the cliff--by gods wasn't that a long drop??-- her vision blurs once again as she tries to find the bottom of this ridiculous ravine. A breath is held and in a moment the decision is made, but before she can make the plunge and decide her own fate a talon lodges itself into her shoulder once more and a shriek is echoed to match the one of the creature. She is carried aloft in the talons of one of those hideous gargoyles to the ravine that she was about to jump into herself. She supposes that this is a better landing idea than her previous plan.
Vaelustil grabs the gnome's collar and slams the head of its corpse against the ground in anger, but his rage seems to have put him in a bit of a situation. Closer and closer his illusion comes, weapons ready, but Vael is by an edge of his own. "I'd love to stay and play with your toys," he says to whatever illusionists remain, "but I have someone to check on." He's turning as he rises, his body catapulting from the bridge like a gymnast, a single drowish - "Streea!" - shouted as he descends. His storm, still raging over head, spawns a bone dragon, and down she plummets to catch her master. Who needs gargoyles, eh?
Mahri had been about to take that same plunge. Following the madman riding stone down, then the elf went next. Eyebrow's shoot up in surprise then wing down in a scowl as cold granite slips beneath her own arms, lofting her up and over the bridge. Of course, the lycan was not about to take that kind of treatment, no matter that she had heard Tenebrae's request to let the guardians take them down. Her feet kicked as she tried in vain to get a good swing up at the gargoyle. It wasn't long before she realized..if the thing did let her go, she was going to end up being a flat mess at the bottom. Ceasing her struggles, she does her best not to watch the ground as it rushed up to meet her. Seriously though, Mahri was getting tired of being in the mode of undress. When her feet touched down, she would go off to make the change she needed, returning after much popping and stretching of bone and tendon in the guise of a black wolf. Much better to use her senses this way too. Easier to track, hunt..kill.
Darian draped, like a jack-pine with a loose knuckled grip, from the serrated edge of the wall, batting the passing limbs with his eyes like a feline God unrolling the sun of its twined beams in his play. Curious, that. And that. Questing for condor eggs in the great drop's disquiet, he was being he tailed by corpses, he was certain. He continued leaping down the crevasse, handhold to handhold, his palms raw with ripping into stone. He crouched on the jagged overhang which he had been dropping toward, he looked a little upward for things that bleed.
Tenebrae was cursing like a sailor jipped of his coinpurse by a tricky hoyden, hair tugged from its roots in places, her legs kicking to dislodge what she thought was some malicious imp. Stray held on, regardless, socky little arms twined hard about her ankle and not about to let go for love or ... whatever it was sock-puppets valued most. Her terror and rage were only assuaged minutely by the sight of the aerial menagerie above, glimpses of them gleaned through the spread of magically-lofted stone wings that were steadily lowering her into that endless drop. Endless... she reached up to grasp at rock-hewn talons, hauling herself up to relieve the pressure on her scalp, and that she may glance.... down. Nobody had any idea, really, what was down there, aside from the centuries' worth of skeletons collected, she gathered, at the bottom. If there was one. Where in the name of Sven's omnipotent underpants were they to go from here? Back to the demon horde? Not likely, she'd take her chances in the Void. Thus were her thoughts, when a black-clad, wildling figure was spied, scrambling to a jut of rock. A figure so odd, so oddly familiar... But she had no time to squint at it-- a sudden blur of blackstone and tiefling whumped past, in apparent freefall, blocking her view. "Kasyr!" She shouted a command, ordered the gargoyle to fly... to no avail. Had the golem-like creatures finally abandoned her control over them, for want of the fresh blood that sustained it? The others seemed fine, as their 'mounts' flapped and cracked in into formation around her. "Kassy!"
Kasyr can only offer a startled glance upwards as his 'wondrously' inventive plan meets it's glaring flaw- His currently accelerating self passing by Tenebrae like a some dismally poor impersonation of a shooting star. It was enough that he'd momentarily fall in a sort of stunned shock, a few more precious seconds passing by until he'd abruptly remember to let go of the wings. Immediately, the gargoyle would begin to pump it's wings- It's 'desire' to survive stemming from a necessity to follow Tenebrae’s commands...and more importantly, to murder something and gorge on it's blood. And just, as the hybrid counted on, the enchantment which allowed it flight started to slow it's ascent- though far more harshly than he'd predicted. That particular issue was further compounded by the fact that his attack on it's 'person' and it's desire for carnage registered him quite clearly as an enemy. And so, even as it began to rise up in the air, the gargoyle deviated from it's path- following up along the rockface in an attempt to skid itself alongside it- it's stone skin making it relatively impervious to the sort of detriment that this would cause. What it didn't count on however, was the gauntlet which had been formerly holding it's wing still winding it's way near it's back- to crush the stone at the base of it's right wing. Essentially, it was forced to remain in a crooked and faltering flight path along the wall- Unsteady enough that it was lacking any real force with which to crush the tiefling. And allowing him the means to repeat the action to it's other wing so that he could leap aside...and onto the rock face. Really, the planning pretty much ended there- The gauntleted form of Gospel at least allowing him to hang from an outcropping of rock due to being particularly useful at crushing into things and creating improvised hand holds. If only he had the words to curse.... Ascendi's be damned. All 9 of the damnable exiles, even.
Misha 's heart palpitates absurdly out of her chest as she is flung through the air, for carried wasn't quite the right word to describe this jerking, neck cracking motion that we were going to call being carried by these partly controlled fiends. Misha did not know what was worse: getting flung about by this stone monstrosity or fighting the illusory mob above. The creature was headed straight for the bottom of the ravine and Misha chose to examine the fine architecture on the gargoyle rather than the swiftly approaching floor. The odd thing was that the creature did not seem to be slowing to a halt and she was beginning to get alarmed at their pace when a piece of her own hair whipped around and almost blinded her. The landing was not to be called that in a history of landings; more of a cessation of movement due to an irremovable force presenting itself in front of the moving object; the ground vs. the gargoyle. The ground won this round and sent both Misha and the gargoyle sprawling in a heap of stone and flesh. No movement is detected for a worrisome amount of time as the shrapnel and dust find it in them to settle. Both herself and the gargoyle seem to move as one mass and as the gargoyle moves itself to sway and hover but a few feet above Misha's head, the only thing she can seem to do is sputter and try not to fall over again and look for any shred of recognition of this place. There seemed to be a slight problem with the gargoyles...The cursed winged fiend at her back seemed to shriek something awful and Misha found that she did not wish to turn around and figure out what it was screaming at so she took flight; her fatigued legs being less than useless on this uneven, unfamiliar terrain. She whizzes towards the only other people that she can discern amongst the chaos.
Streea slows almost suddenly, and it's only by her strong, draconic grip that Vaelustil isn't flung to the ground those last few meters. But Vael knows her tactics, by now. Already he's jumping from her loosening claw, landing in a crouch on the ground as his dragon companion shifts to her elven guise. He took a quick survey of the situation - Tene still on her way down, Kasyr on the rock face, the wolf, and the elven lass all accounted for - before he rises, his eyes on his sire's form as he awaits her at the bottom. "By the Spider Queen's blood," he curses, falling back onto very, very old habits, "may those damned midgets burn in the deepest pit of the hells."
Mahri 's snout is lowered, snuffling along the ground for any familiar scent. All she smelled was death, old blood, and an ancient magic at work in this place. The shuffling of stone on stone caught her attention, as did the hideously extended maw of the gargoyle who had brought her down. Just past him, the lycan took note of a skeletal dragon and her rider, having found their own way to the bottom of the void. However, it was only a glimpse as stone claws and teeth made an ascension towards the wolf. Intent on ripping her apart, of which Mahri was vehemently against. She had grown quite attached to claw, tooth and fur. She backs up..and up..and up, until that is her back paw seems to find nothing but..nothing. Simply air. With her hind end half on and half off the ledge she had ~thought~ was the bottom, Mahri scrambles to gain a firmer perch, all the while, the stony beast was coming closer.
Darian rolled pickled eyeballs in his fingers, swilled from his flask. The ledge he sat cross legged on slipped out from the rock's face like an eternally insatiate tongue, reaching for the labia of darkness. He was on the tip, swiveling his neck to follow the volley of fools hailing down upon him. Fur and scale, wrathful stone, flesh. Screaming, thinking, cursing. A thoroughfare to hell rarely sees such willing traffic. And an odd bellow like a mountain of loosing a war-cry of rock upon a village from above, the gargoyle whips itself in a whistling spiral, whipping with it a harried form by the hair, needing a little blood; downward the both of them, and Darian watches as they drop like spit from children guessing at how deep the void is. The gargoyle with its wings tucked into it coordinates its plummet with its claws directed at the ground, its blackstone muzzle staring at the rock which would crush the skull it gripped. Darian stood, capped his flask, adjusted his crotch, shook his hair and growled like a beast in need of a thorough flea-picking, standing directly beneath the meteoric pair's destined crater to be. 50 feet, he pulls his pick axe, 25 he sets into the stone - 5 feet and he swings, slipping the edge of the rusted tool a fold of hair, feels it cut, jerks the body with him as rolls feet from the crash, shards of livid statue prickling into him as though he were an arcane pincushion. Once more, the dust must settle, and we must wait to see the two within it.
Rhian came walking up the path through the dark city, black eyes darting around warily at every shadow, every corner, every figure who showed their face. Though finding the streets empty for the most part, the grip on her staff was more relaxed. The sudden shrieking in the distance made her steps all the faster in the direction leading out of the place. Soon she sped to a steady trot in the direction of the noise, some strange impulse driving her closer towards the action when reason would be making her take the graveyard route. The human’s grip on her staff shifts to two hands, bony fingers tightening so that the whites of her knuckles showed through the dark skin. Her trot accelerates into a head on run as the chaos grows louder and she looks back towards the road to see if anything had snuck up without her aware. Suddenly after turning a corner she finds herself airborne and a sharp stabbing in her still healing shoulder, only the other one burned to match. She shrieked loud enough to announce her presence all the forces gathered, however imaginary. How could they though, they were right in front of her-- and it was certainly hard getting over the piercing sensations coursing through her body. Even those in the gorge might faintly hear the cries, at least those of better hearing as the woman flailed about in the grip of her unknown assailant. Wide black eyes can only stare down at the incoming abyss as she whacked at where she thought the head of her captor would be with the wood of her overly large staff.
Bone.... what? It was all a clatter of white, a dark-clad figure set to its middle as Vael and Streea soared past to settle on what appeared a vast, wide ledge. The others, too, lofted.. or in Kasyr's case, careened.. to that apparent succour from horrid, splattering Death in the fathomless depths below. And not so much succour, for Kasyr, either. "Bloody tiefling..." Gritted fangs parted to allow the words, replied to in an angry squeak, "Die, we'll all die! For the love'o'sausage pie, woman, set me down!" Tene risked a glance at the ... puppet?... hanging from her foot, her face a mask of wry disbelief, but this was no time for pondering animate footwear. The fact that the gargoyles below were looking friskier -- and hungrier-- by the minute (aside from Kasyr's, which continued its fall until it was a vanishing speck). She'd open her mouth again, but this time it was to garble a welter of ancient spellwork, feeling even as she did so the weakening command she wielded over the golems. Perhaps they'd obey, and leave off their desire to eat their erstwhile passengers. Perhaps they would not. And poor Kasyr... his grip so tentative, it seemed. She ordered her gargoyle lower, lower, her plan to save the wretched part-imp from peril, but then a lithe creature sprang up from below, a black wing of motion, a darkling scar on the grey sky of rock and air surrounding, and Darian had her, and then she fell... minus a good two feet of hair -- and the gargoyle, which continued its mission, robotic thing it was. The stone beast descended beyond the lip of the ledge at the exact moment Tene and the King of Roads hit the ground in a puff and thump and tangle of snarling flesh. While the necromancer recovered her wits enough, and the air cleared enough, for her to lay eyes on her newest 'saviour', the gargoyle paused midair below the tiefling, its great gaunt head tilting up like a leonine cudgel. While Tene snarled again, and bunched a small white fist, the gargoyle flapped its stony wings madly, rocketing upward like.. well, like a stone, falling up instead of down. And about the same time that fist was swinging for Darian's chin, the gargoyle's head would slam like a rock hammer into the tiefling's behind, the gauntlet holding him implacably in place tearing off a great wedge of stone as he was -- if all went to plan -- bumped up and over the safer side of the outcropping to join the others.
Kasyr couldn't help but observe everything beneath him. Really, 'perched' as he was- he didn't exactly have that many other pastimes at his disposal. So, it was in his altogether awkward position that he gained a perfect view of Darian and Tenebrae’s wild little tumble- an incredulous guffaw all he could managed as he continued to try and shift into a good position. Most especially when Joliette’s former mount started to rise up to meet him. Really, after the treatment he got from the last one, he couldn't be blamed for his lack of trust in this particular entities approach- squirming, fidgeting and just about dislodging himself from the rockface before the gargoyle finishes the job for him- that upheaval of it's head sending him tumbling forward- to sprawl through the air on an awkward position onto the gargoyles pack- part way on and partway off. And from there? Well, unfortunately, suspicious leads to some particularly poor choices now and then- and unfortunately, the gargoyle was most definitely suspicious...! Thus, down went the tiefling and the creation of stone, partway from it's chosen descent- and partway from a sporadic gripping of one wing to ensure it couldn't guide him into a rock wall, or gain enough balance to shake him free. A pattern which continued until the pair would crash heavily into the ground- by which point it's usefulness was ended with a violent application of a quickly manifested Katana; Gospels final incarnation used to divide the statue neatly in two. ...Really, the tiefling would be fine then, he just needed a few moments to sit there and hyperventilate.
Misha wheezes and pants as she finds herself almost at the breaking point for running this night, it was like she was the jester-like hamster of the gods, 'Run little elfling', she could almost hear them chuckling derisively at her side cramp and ordering her to keep running at the wheel or die. She obeyed but made a mental note to not pray to those gods anymore. The low visibility of the ravine was not aiding her quest to find something, -anything- that she could use to find another person, or a way out, the only thing her eyes can detect is the dust settling and she hears only the screams of the others. She follows the screams as best she can before she hears a decidedly unhappy roar to her rear. Well, this just was not turning out to be her night, better luck next time they always say; that's if you're lucky enough to -get- a next time. She pauses in her flight for a moment, her lungs refusing to take in any more air on the run. The silence is deafening for a moment and all she can discern is the monstrous flapping of wings in the distance getting ever nearer and the urge to find the person who controls these bloodthirsty golems grows exponentially and somehow Misha finds the will to continue her sprint down the chasm at the subtle hinting persuasion of the gargoyle leering at her like a piece of pork. One never knows where one finds the strength to carry on in these rough times...The only thing in her repertoire that would be of -any- use here would be a little light, but she could not locate her staff and she hoped to all seven hells that she hadn't dropped it and that it was somewhere in this ridiculous pack of hers, sitting uselessly amongst the beef sausage while she ran for her life. The person who controlled these winged mongrels was going to get a strongly worded letter when it was all said in done. If Misha was not alive to deliver it then the woman would receive a stern haunting from her vengeful spirit.
Mahri watches in amazement as the thing she had dubbed Stoney in the recess of her mind, backed away, giving the lycan enough room to heave herself up onto the ledge. Taking the reprieve for what it was, she scanned the area for a way..off that didn't include going down. It wasn't long before she spotted the cave, not so cleverly hidden by scrub-brush. As she got closer to it though, she knew it would have been found anyway, what with the stench of trolls that wafted from the mouth. Edging her way in, her eyes quickly adjusting to the dark, Mahri made an interesting discovery. A Troll, asleep at his post. With a wolfish kind of grin, she slunk forward, working up a good lather around her muzzle. Foam began to drip..a great facsimile of a diseased beast she thought. Suddenly, she began a serious of growls, barks and yips, designed to startle the sentry awake. After that, before he could even form a coherent thought, the wolf was on him, nipping and snarling at his heels so that he stumbled back..back..and further til he emerged from the cave entrance. Darting this way and that, the wolf herded the troll towards the bloodlusting gargoyles. Oh, the took the offering. Finally, a tangible enemy to fight! To bleed, devour! The troll death cries echoed..and soon after, the thunder of many feet could be heard as what seems to be a company of trolls spills out of the cave. Mahri, in her great and infinite wisdom..finds a very safe place to hide before slinking back into the cave.
Vaelustil finally dislodges Streea from his back. "Damnit, woman, watch where you land." Streea, being Streea, finds the whole thing hilarious. Thankfully, Vael, being Vael, dismisses the bone dragon back to where she came from, grumbling all the while about annoying women. However, now that he's free of the gigantic bony hindside, he takes another look around, dusting off his pants. "No one got eaten, did they?"
Skyle had been wandering the Underdark for some time, seeking a way to leave when he stumbled upon something that could qualify as an exit: a tunnel; yes, and there was light at the end! Or so he thought. Truth be told, the light was an odd color, but what the hell, why not follow it? The journey was tedious, marked by tight squeezes and close calls, but Skyle, in the end, had ascended. At least he was a tad closer to the surface. Light still led his way, but it became more distinct as he drew closer; he had made a mistake. A multitude of souls lit where he now was, and the owners of those souls gave naught but a snarl towards his presence. This Paladin, obviously, was not in the Graces of his God. Trolls, they were, a mass of them. "Err. Suppose you could not eat me, mates?" was the question that left his mouth, nearly rhetorical in nature. How lucky could one man be?
A flash of petite fist - before it bit of nothing, some maimed fools, and a cavernous recess in the nothing, resembling a bald spot on a moor's skull in the midst of night black as leprous limbs. After the fist, a flash of white like the moon came and left and time fumbles its attentionspan, after the fist - after it trolls, trolls pouring forth like restless pupae nursed into hastening vermin from a nest of carrion. The Gargoyles wing loops of homicidal ecstasy and collect in concert at the extent of their whorl, before pillaging the horde, rumbling bodies over edge, sucking puss and blood from diseased, brutish flesh, in general creating of the charge a flow like wine which overtops the lip, bristles down your neck, and flows on. Darian was struck. The woman was spasmodically flurrying into him. Trolls were raging into helter skelter band. He stood somewhat like an impatient forest before a dulled axe. "MAYAH UHTKAH, MAYAH UHTKAH, MAYAH UHTKA MAYAH UHTKA" The trolls shrieked, shuffling to the ledges to the brim, killing each other to stay on as more piled out to overcome all who stood against them. Darian, at the tip, stood still like a plague with no wind to carry it. He did not lift one finger, he did not lift a brow.
Rhian :: As the woman had been whacking away, at the head of the stone flyer, her flailing motions surprisingly hitting their mark as she spied the dark chasm below and shrieked away. Of course who would expect a human female to react any other way but scream her lungs out in the face of certain doom? It was soon that the creature neared the ledge where other figures stood. Who knows if the creature had tired of being repeatedly thwacked in the head with a large stick or had ulterior motives, but soon she was tossed like child’s play toy into the nearest figure running into the mess of things. Part of her might sigh in relief that the majority of the damage caused by the fall was absorbed by the fleshy cushion she’d landed upon and probably rolled off of to get only cuts and scratches to her limbs, tearing her dress up something awful. However, the dominant thought on hand was that the cushion that part of her had been so thankful for was green and snarled…With a shriek the quarterstaff was sent rabidly whacking once more, catching the single enemy off guard before she ran head on into the fray, more of the similar strategy taking place as she headed deeper into the chaos.
SMACK. THUNK. Tene's fist rose and fell like a pale -- and rather ineffective white hammer on the face, the torso, the limbs of the Wanderer who'd abandoned her, though she had no real idea why, since a large portion of her admittedly errant psyche was rather glad to find him gone. But there was that other bit..... THUD... smack... poke? She ran out of steam and ire both about the time Vael spoke up, and a stumble of trolls shot from the cavern that had seemed to devour Mahri, the wolfess fleeing -- was she mad? -- into the maw of it, and Kas plopped on the ledge (after a short and ugly struggle) and right before Rhian was deposited amid them all. Darian was as unmoving as the gargoyles were not, precarious stance not hindered one bit by her pummelling, and Tenebrae followed his awful gaze toward the mayhem ensuing. All was blood, perhaps more rightly called ichor, as the gargoyles feasted savagely, and figures were milling about -- she glimpsed motion toward the back of the ledge, under the sheer wall's shadow, a man-sized thing, a pale thing... a man! "You there!" She shouted, to Skyle, who was about to be razored by the mandibles of one ghastly abortion of a gnomish experiment gone wrong. But he wasn't listening. A squeaky voice at her ankle said, "He's a goner, begorrah!" Tene frowned, her eyes drifting from her lower leg back to the King of Roads. "Shut up." This was muttered, no time to wonder how and where and why she had a sock puppet attached to her thus. Instead, her eyes levelled on Darian, no questions in them, only the one spoken: "Fancy lending a hand, then?" She was then in a sort of flight across the ledge to join the fray, a vicious blur that thankfully had armed herself well, though she'd lost the bow on the bridge. What the gargoyles didn't rend to bloody bits, Tene would hack at, her secret fright at her unexpected flying lesson channelled now to a less shameful emotion. She was hacking her way toward Misha, who wasn't faring all that well against the vile slavering morass of troll that loomed above her, and as her sword punctured its spine, she pointed toward the cavern, and Skyle, the man who stood at its lip staring like a stunned mullet at the carnage. "Run!" She could think of no safer place, the bulk of the troll-things having spilled out now and the ledge.. well, there was the end of that, in all other directions. The necromancer spared a glance over her shoulder to see how Vael, Streea and the others were doing, daggers flipped from their sheaths, shot out one after another to puncture ghastly eyes like tea-saucers full of custard, and throats rippling with pale wattles. The spell was slipping, now, and the gargoyles eyed the travellers with an akin hunger. And was... was that a HUMAN girl, in the middle of it all? "For the sake of.. bloody hell.... RUN! Get to the..." A massive paw clacked her upside the head, and all else was just a churchbell, tolling and tolling, as night fell in Tene's mind and all the stars came out to wave.
Skyle was, quite literally, looking into the eyes of a demon, and backed up slowly; what else was he to do, tarnish the sword strapped to his back? To prevent being mauled, consumed, and ultimately digested, Sky turned heel and ran into the depths of the cavern. Of course, he didn't stop to look back until he reached a point at which he felt safe; the abomination seemed to lose him. Hopefully, at least.
Kasyr was seemingly oblivious to the utter pandemonium that had descended upon that small stretch of rock- his emotions continuing to churn internally as the breaths came faster, the hybrids course of action only serving to further agitate him. And yet, the experiment continued- his anxiety and rage growing to such a point that it bubbled over- and the shadows about the hybrid grew fluid once more. This time however, the aberrations were not of another’s creation- were not the diabolical reincarnations of a memory long past~ No, this time the shadows which slipped from the hybrids being were something far more comforting. Emotions, twisted by Gospel, Solidified by intensity of thought and feeling; focused in a murderous desire unleashed upon the very first green abomination that made the mistake of rising a fist towards him. Kasyr didn't even move at first, simply staring at the troll those tendrils of darkness had twined within their grasp; those agitated breaths he still drew serving to do naught more than tighten the coils which ran round his unfortunate prey. And then, all at once, they began to pull in every direction- rending and twisting till flesh and sinew gave way with a sickening rips, and bone was forced to crack and pop. The travesty only lasted instants, but it was what he required to gain his calm. All the rage seeping out in a physical outlet, rippling forth across the ground in tendrils and barbs-gouging, shredding and tearing at whatever it can grasp- until a forced tranquillity of sorts could be instilled. It would only be then that the shadow would recede again, overlapping the shadows in the hybrids coat as he began to move again. It was disorienting at first, truly, trying to grow accustomed to the pulse of the crowd- to the push of frenzied bodies both flesh and stone. He was seeking the outskirts really- pressing and dashing around those floundering corpses of those soon to be dead in an effort to find his way to Joliette’s voice. Well, that- and seeing just how much chaos he could wreak in the crowd with the occasional swing of Gospel in the form of a broadsword, it's surnatural denseness {Which he could avoid from being bound to the blade} working wonders in causing disruptions whenever he could get a moments notice to swing it. In a pinch, the blunt trauma served nicely, as well. ...Damnedest thing though, he couldn't see or hear her any longer.
Gradually, like an outbreak of acne, a change came over the fray. First, claws became red as though painted by an invisible flock of unruly fey, melded into each other, swelled into bulbous, clowny shoes. A paw grew into a hoof. An eye turned to glass and swirled willy nilly in its socket; some took blows and shifted like wax, melting, condensing into puddles, reforming variously: There was, at the end of it, amidst the medley, to name a few: a centaur, a gingerbread man, a pile of pulsing organs, a mime gesturing a noose around his neck, a hooker with two teeth and a third nipple on her brow, a clown juggling fetuses, severed heads of saints speaking in tongues, and any who were still occupied in the kill found they were thrashing and tearing into one another with bouquets of pollen vomiting flowerets, bashing into each other with massive clubs of sunflowers, knifing with lily, slitting with eglantine, spiked with poppy - until with such an upheaval of petals and pollen dust ensconced about them they all fell to sneezing and tickling and guffawing and wheezing like old men with black lungs at a dirty joke; the populous of the battle now populating what seemed to be the daydream of a raving deity. Darian stepped between this like fate, unseen, unknown, unassumed, to be discussed over mead and flowery verse some years down the winsome road. He came to an old troll untouched as the changeling horde of warriors and gargoyles had been. He began grumbling the guttural slur, a discussion, muttering the throaty argot and nodding and cajoling. He nodded, yes, deeply, looked for all the world to know the concern of a fresh widow at the beast, laughed twice like a punch-drunk cannonade with him, and slammed his skull in a deafening crack into the troll's, with a conversational finality. He handed him a brace of condor eggs, as though fulfilling a promise, turned and strode to the scene, where he raised his eyebrows once, and all was as it was - trolls and gargoyles and warriors poised to maim like woven tapestries in the gut of a distant castle. "Agulah Grimorah. Greloogah azloig t'dramel. Lunk." The trolls began to file back into the cave. The gargoyles sat smacking robotically at their lips. Darian turned to the others - "I had business with these trolls. You have half an hour to recollect and leave. I do not recommend the cliffs." He turned, and paced into the cavern like a clock into infinity.
Rhian fought, whacked, thwacked, and somehow survived the entire encounter with a bleeding gash or two and a menagerie of little cuts and bruises along her body. The woman, already heaving an on guard gapes at the colorful display of the battle's ending and stares, dumbstruck as it enfolds, only to send the attackers filing back from whence they came. She stares in awe at he who'd put a stop to the chaos and she gulps down what little sense she had left and went limping after him into the tunnels, not even fathoming the cliffs as an option.
Kasyr was heaped in ichor and bits of flesh- though not all of it belonged to the trolls. Somewhere along the way, he'd been bitten, clawed, grappled ( With a trolls dismembered hand still clutching to his coat)...and yet, he had still been moving- fighting in some vain attempt to make heads or tails of the situation and come to a resolution. Fighting, stabbing, beating, Pollinating...Well Scratch that last one, as it didn't exactly happen. Although one could suppose on some degree or another it really did. Really, it wasn't the sort of thing that one split hairs over when dually aware of a troll behind ones back with an upraised club, the only thing between a tiefling and a forcible rearrangement of ones faculties being an improvised. Kasyr would simply look thankful, one brief moment of relief all he was allowed to feel before he became further aware of two facts. The first being that there was no Joliette to be seen or heard, and the second being that Darian was already gone, steps having ticked a steady pace into the caverns maw~ Where the hybrid assumed he needed to be. ...Because he had obviously not learned a single lesson as to assuming.
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