RP:A Melancholy Knight

Part of the Eboric Unites the Tribes Arc

Not Far from an Ancient Monolith, Northern Rynvale

Deep night in the depths of Rynvale’s wild northern reaches, and Raidh needs to take a whiz. She manages to avoid waking the King and most of the men as she rises and slips, dressed in tunic and breeches, just a longknife by her side, out of the tent she shares with Eboric. Avaldi snores by the fire. Three of the King’s men sit watch, playing a game of how many sticks they can stick in the Half-Arm’s yellow beard before he wakes. It is a dangerous amusement, but they don’t know that, yet. Raidh doesn’t warn them, either, just smirks as she passes, making silent gestures to let the men know she isn’t going far away, just into the undergrowth. This isn’t all a lie, as she does in fact need to water the bushes, and she isn’t wholly aware it’s an untruth until she rises from her squat and looks out into the night forest, where owls are hooting and forest-creatures rustle in branches and through the leaf-littered roots of the old growth trees. Raidh has never had much to do with forests, there aren’t all that many trees on the plains. This forest makes her feel terribly claustrophobic, especially since the dragon episode and their hurried distancing from the sound of ogres. Ogres, she figures, aren’t very quiet creatures. And dragons, surely, must make a lot of noise while barging around on the ground, in growth as thick as this. One look back at the camp, and she steps into that ancient wood. She can always bolt back if something too nasty to take down with a long-knife comes along, right? Even with the mists, she likes the way this place smells, likes the feel of the tree-bark as she runs her hands across the close-growing trunks, and Raidh wanders further from camp than she realizes before she arrives at a small stream in a clearing, the water dark with night but for the broken glints of moonlight reflecting off the water’s surface. She stands on the bank for a while, staring at the monolith on its little island in the stream.

The monolith, upon closer than cursory inspection, would be revealed not to be alone upon the island in all of its stalwart and ancient glory; a shadow of some large figure, though not large enough to be either dragon or ogre, made its presence known when its silhouette of darkness contrasted the glints of moonlight reflected from the water's surface and against the ancient structure. More uncannily and peculiar, it would be upon that sight that the hint of not fear or wickedness accompanied it, but rather a sadness -a perpetual and unrelenting sorrow of guilt and despair that was minimized perhaps only by the distance between silhouette and Raidh. The figure apparently had its back turned to Raidh, provided her keen eye could pierce that far. Yet even without the space between shieldmaiden and mysterious figure closed, there is a certain, even if faded and dulled reflection from the form, as if it wore platemail armor and nothing bestial and primal.

Raidh draws her longknife, the weapon making a soft slur of sound as it slips free of its sheath, joining the hiss of surprise sucked through her teeth. She did in fact spot that reflection, less obscure than its cause which stood in the darkness of the shadows cast against the monolith by moonlight. If she just steps away, as quietly as possible, there’s a chance she can simply leave without incident. Not that she’s afraid of a fight, but there’s her brother and the King, and the tiresome upbraiding she’ll get if they realize she’s wandered off in the night. So she backs away. Blue curses! What’s with Raidh and those damned twigs? Another one is trodden on and of course it snaps loudly enough for anyone to hear. She freezes in place, unwilling to turn her back on whatever or who-ever is loitering by that ancient stone in the dark.

The sudden and harsh sound of the twig broken, which assaulted the air like some foreign and unnatural noise against the otherwise serene if sorrowful scenery that was laid before the woman, was most definitely heard by the mysterious figure. Its movement was a blur but not from some preternatural speed; rather, it was a slow and gradual motion that had such a darkness trailing behind it. To expose a face contrasted in how white it was by the darkness around the figure, still too far to discern any detail. That was all before, right in front of Raidh's very eyes, the figure simply vanished, which momentarily alleviated that sense of unforgiveable sadness and regret. But not for long; suddenly that feeling was present again, and extremely potent as if in the direct vicinity of Raidh. It was a despair of sorrow that was overwhelming and assaulting, and the source was made known. Directly behind Raidh and blocking her escape back to camp was an imposing and broad man clad in armor that seemed old, faded, and distinguishable as platemail that used to provide a sheen of black color along its surface that has long since weathered. White hair in straight tresses courted a face as equally pale, as if drained of blood, as a sad expression was fixated upon the Queen with eyes glossed over and dead. And perhaps while Raidh was taking in the sight of him, the creature abruptly shot out a strong and titanic hand in order to attempt to grasp hold of her wrist (the one not wielding a weapon), with a vice grip.

Raidh is no weak castle-bred maiden, but even a Rider’s lean muscle is no match for that death-grip this large, depressing stranger has on her wrist. There’s a scant moment of serenity, in which Raidh quits struggling against a thing giving no quarter at all, a dupe to make him think she’s surrendered. This happens right before her boot lashes out in a swift kick aimed at the odd warrior’s groin, both intended as a painful shock and a bit of extra leverage as she makes one more frenzied tug at that grip holding her knife-free hand from use while the one with the knife in it arcs toward the offending arm holding her from freedom.

Grailan did not move; not because the dead man was invulnerable to any attack, but rather simply because he could not feel pain and was, in basic terms, a hulking corpse clad in armor. The kick to his groin hit softness beneath the chainmail that his platemail overlayed, but the man didn't even flinch; neither at the attack intended for a painful shock nor as the knife plummeted and embedded just between his armor plates that covered forearm and groove of his elbow. No blood came out, and his grip did not waver; instead that knife might simply had become stuck in dead flesh. Meanwhile that oppressively sorrowful stare was still fixated upon Raidh. "Cease your struggling," it was a monotonous voice that held only a single frequency; depressive. As if he was in eternal suffering for some vile act. His other hand snapped foreward to grasp her neck with an equally forceful hold, but surprisingly, neither hold was squeezing enough to hurt her; simply firm enough not to be broken. "Where is my master?"

Raidh does cease struggling. For just a moment, and not because the dead man told her to! She has a second or two of abject shock, when it becomes clear this melancholic masher was not fazed at all by her various defenses. One second, two. Then she recommences struggling like a sackful of wildcats until that second clammy hand clamps around her throat, whereon she stops again, gasping panicked breaths and blinking. What sort of man is stabbed and slashed and kicked in the cods and feels nothing? Three seconds pass, and four. Five. A dead one, comes the dawning of the fact. Raidh has plenty of experience with the phantasmal dead thronging Draugheim’s gloomy halls, but the general philosophy of the Riddarnir on the subject of walking corpses is ‘burn them, ask questions later’. It’s hard to speak with a fist clenching your larynx, but she manages to a strangled few words once it’s abysmally and inarguably plain this dead man walking isn’t letting her go anywhere, any time soon. “He’s over there. Not far.” Her eyes shift toward the camp. Of course, she has no idea who this creature’s master is. She just wants him to walk on over there, to where Avaldi and Eboric and the rest of the men are.

The death knight stood still and simply took the brunt of her defenses like a stalwart shield against the sackful of wildcats. It was only when the woman finally ceased her struggling and attempted to respond with words and the shift of her eyes that the creature moved and seemed to respond; it was the slow and melancholious turn of his head to gaze in that direction in sorrow. But it was brief and soon the creature brought his saddened expression back around, curtained by those white tresses of hair, to peer at Raidh with dead eyes that harbored his sadness. "I cannot go that far. I am bound until my master defeats me, and breaks the binding. Then I can fulfill my oath to him in service once more. Go to my master in the camp and bring him back. He is the bear, and he will recognize the name 'Grailan'." And those hands released her, before the creature stood there, unmoving.

The bear? Surely, he cannot mean, “Eboric?” Raidh’s blue gaze is wide and fixed on the dead man. “You know him? He’s this ‘master’ you want?” And just to make sure, she repeats, “Eboric.” No way, says the voice of reason from the back of her mind, where it’s presently hiding. No futharking way. Yet, that’s what the corpse said, alright, ‘bear’. How many bears were camping out in these foggy woods this night, whom a deceased warrior might know as ‘Master’? Not many, she would wager.

The creature tilted his head just a bit in a manner that might appear questioning if not for the utter sadness that radiated from his features, expression, and very person; it was as if he was resigned to some hellish fate and accepted it while mourning it all the while. "Eboric is my lord and master, to whom I have pledged my cursed service upon a single knee; yet my loyalty has been tainted by the shamans here. I have been bound for years, awaiting his arrival to free me so I may fulfill my oath to him." Those dead, sad eyes searched the woman's for a moment, "You know my master. You spoke that he is in the camp not far. Why do you question whom it is? Have you spoke falsehood? Have you no honor, or simply no courage to help those in need?" It was not spoken in disdain, but rather mourning, as if somehow the death knight failed and was at fault for the words of the woman.

Raidh is once again stricken with silence – no honor?! No courage?! Wheat-colored brows lower into the kind of frown Avaldi has, in all his years as her brother, come to dread. Raidh backs up, for had this unnaturally mobile carcass not just said he was bound to this place? And a few paces more, careful not to trip on any more blasted sticks. When she thought she was far enough away that the knight’s peculiar geis might keep him from accosting her again, she sits down on a mossy tree-root and folds her arms. One of them’s bleeding slightly, where his grip had displaced burned flesh under the bandage, which is now slowly spotting with darkness that in the light of day would have looked red. She stares at the corpse, and snorts. “No honor. Says the ‘man’ lurking about in the dark, grabbing girls by their throats. Tell me, dead man, what happens to you if I do not in fact inform Eboric of your whereabouts, and we just merrily go on our way without you? What then?”

Grailan made no attempt to follow the woman, but merely stood where he was situated as those dead eyes continued to stare at the woman with those oppressively sad, dead eyes and mournful features. The remnants of the idle night's breeze lifted strands of white hair up and away from his equally pale features. "Then I will remain, bound here, until such a time that my lord returns." He finally moves, but it isn't for gait; his hand reaches up to calmly and slowly take hold of the hilt of the blade embedded in his arm between plates of his armor, and with a yank, pulls it free. Dead flesh and muscle flakes clung to it. It was flipped in his hand so his hand grasped hold of the blade and not the hilt, which was extended in Raidh's direction. "Others I had attempted to speak to had fled upon my approach. Others I have slain because they attacked me on my approach. I desired neither." He still held out that weapon, hilt toward her. "Whom are you?"

Raidh doesn’t give him a reply on that latter question right away. Instead, she perversely leaves the dead man waiting with her knife in his hand, for both her name and, for a bit longer, his freedom. No honor, indeed! But shame on her, for leaving her weapon behind! “Won’t you eventually rot?” she asks, lightly, as if inquiring about his thoughts on the weather. “Being a corpse, and such. How long could you actually stand there before you are nothing but armored bones and the cold wind blowing through them?” Whether he tells her this right away or at all, she continues, looking down the bridge of her nose at him. “Since you have drawn my blood,” she shows him the spotty bandage, “It is my right to make you earn any kindness I might have left to give you. So I, Raidh Jorgunsdotr, say to you,” a pause, as she can’t remember his name. No matter. “that you owe me a blood boon now, so must answer me one question as the price of it, before I take pity on you.” She thinks briefly, and adds, “And no trickery, or being overly cryptic.” Too well she knows how obtuse the dead can be.

"Grailan," he reminded her, though he still held out the knife as dead eyes looked mournfully toward the spotty bandage; no matter that it was her struggling that caused the skin to peel and her lack of obediance to his issued command to still herself. "Interesting; a blood boon. Certainly I have not wounded you, have I?" It was almost... remorseful, and not actually in anyway sarcastic. "I was attempting to avoid such, thus is why I didn't draw my..." Those dead eyes briefly looked toward her dagger in his hand, and then to the open, bloodless wound in his forearm between the armored plates, "...Weapon." They returned to Raidh, "I do not rot as other corpses. Part of my punishment. Ask, I shall answer your question, Raidh Jorgunsdotr."

Despite that the pact she has foisted on this Grailan creature is actually a pile of horsefeathers, Raidh looks offended when the undead complains about the deal. “Wound or no, blood is blood. And wounds don’t count, if they don’t bleed. Anyway. What I wish to know, before I bring my husband here to free you (or put you in the ground where you belong, she doesn’t say, but it’s transparent in her expression) is this: why are you forbidden from the grey peace of Draugheim, or as it may be, the Hall of the Honorable Dead?” She tries for a bonus question, hoping he’ll take it as part and parcel, “Is this what makes you so sad?”

The creature learned a new piece of information there; this woman was the wife of his lord. But she was not his lord, and he had no orders for her -without Eboric's words from his own lips, simply claiming such would not command him, as the creature was bound here before Raidh and Venturil's king met. But he owed her an answer, and it wasn't one that he was attempting to hide; nobody had simply ever asked him those questions before. "I broke my oath to protect the wife of a duke regent who I discovered was fond of kidnapping young girls in the village to keep for... well, you understand. I broke it by slaying her myself. He had the friendship of a necromancer that specialized in curses in his court ...And the wife was innocent." He stared sorrowfully at her with that oppressive aura of mourning and sadness, "So I was cursed by the necromancer to rise again after being practice to the archers, and barred eternally from the Hall of the Honorable Dead for my sin." He paused, before he answered her second question. "Yes. It is different when you live. When you are dead, you can feel the very separation from the Hall. And I know I can never set foot there. Nor do I deserve to."

For the Riddarnir, the hierarchy of the dead is a complex affair. At its apex, those who feast and fight in the Hall of Heroes, the Honorable Dead who perished in war and great acts of courage for the sake of their people. With them, their servants: parents who've died saving their children or defending their farms bravely. Then there’s Draugheim, dull home of the blameless but ordinary spirits who died old and in their beds, or were crushed by a runaway turnip wagon and the like. Within that grey place are more strata, infinitely complex but rarely ever changing, for unlike the living the dead have a terrible time re-balancing the scales of honor in their favor. At the very bottom of the heap are pitiful creatures. Dust-Eaters, so craven that even Draugheim won’t have them, fated to wander the world but never partake in it. The walking dead are another matter entirely, but the ins and outs of that awful state are lessons Raidh is yet to learn. All she really knows is that they, like the miserable Eaters of Dust, are doomed to walk where they should not. She also knows the vast majority denied even the dull fare of the Grey Realm deserve every moment of their eternal misery, so there’s no use feeling pity for them since every Riddarnir is taught from birth how to live honorably and should know better (and the fates of outsiders, for the most part, simply do not matter). Yet Grailan’s story has struck a chord in the shieldmaiden’s heart, for it’s clear (if it’s truth he speaks) that his murder of the wife was born not of spite, but mistake. Surely, that had to count for something after all this time? Is the doom laid on him in hatred so powerful it would hold even the Knight’s opinion of himself, after all this time? All this passes through her mind in silence, and she’s frowning all the while at the puzzle of it. Anyone else might have dived right in to pointing possible reasons for self-forgiveness out to the dead knight, but Raidh knows well that the dead, particularly the restless ones, can be very tetchy indeed when their convictions are challenged, and this one had a knife (her knife! Othinn forbid that Avaldi find out she lost her weapon!) which still could feasibly and tangibly be thrown at her. So all she does is stand up, reach out gingerly to retake possession of her longknife, and say, “I’ll tell him.” She makes to turn away toward the camp, but a last thought dawns on her. “Tell me, Grailan. What happens if you fight Eboric and beat him?”

Grailan watched with such an oppressively aura and expression of sadness as she studied him in recluse of her own thoughts before the woman lifted in order to take back hold of her knife -of which he allowed without incident. As it was proven before, the hulking dead man had no care whether or not he was struck or wounded by the blade, and thus he seemed not to fear if she would use it to immediately slice his throat. But she didn't, and with glossed-over eyes more akin to corpses than the living, the male with bloodless complexion and equally white hair watched as she moved away only to see the shieldmaiden pause to pose her question. It is offered a simple response, "Could he not defeat me, I would not have pledge my service to him. But if that becomes the case, he would die." It seemed however, that the creature had the utmost faith in his lord both defeating him and thereafter saving him from the shamans' binding to the monolith.

Raidh, however, has no faith at all in this ambulent cadaver. Her gaze grows cold as she speaks, and in those eyes her kinship to pitiless Avaldi finds a clear window; her words are as chill and echo its promise. "If you kill my husband, then this I swear to you: no force in this world, no thing of land or sea, air or spirit, will keep me from having you wrapped in iron and nailed to stone, and cast into the ocean far from any shore, and there you can petition the fish for your freedom until every ounce of you is carried off and eaten by crabs and other carrion-pickers, and your name in the songs will be Treacherous Filth, and brave men will spit its taste from their lips after speaking it." Even the cadaver's aura of gloom might shrink from this geis, for Raidh was selected to follow in her Amma's footsteps for a reason; in her lies the power of words, the way of speaking a thing so that it is a truth which may then be made manifest. Curse-maker, sooth-sayer, singer of blessings, all these things are written into Raidh's past, present and future. Here and now, that power burgeons in this dire promise which is so much more than merely words. When they are spoken and done, she drags her wolfish stare off Grailan. In silence, the shieldmaiden of the King steps away into the fog and trees.

At The Camp

Eboric awakens before dawn and, finding Raidh gone, rises swiftly. It takes some time to buckle on his armor, but the land is dangerous, as the werebear well knows, and it is only after he is in full battle gear, with weapons strapped to his belt, and his arms bright with golden rings that he emerges from his tent, looking about for any sign of his wife.

Avaldi Jarlsson is already awake. There's a man with a bloody nose by the fire, and Avaldi is brushing twigs from his beard with vast irritation as he paces the perimeter of the camp looking for Raidh. He finds her not, and is just about to head off into the dismal fog to look for her when Eboric emerges from his tent. The Half-Arm nods towards the King, "She's gone." The men will find tracks leading west, into the bushes nearby and beyond into the trees.

Raidh is actually heading their way, her head filled with visions concerning hungry crabs.

Eboric throws Avaldi a somewhat irritated look; the warlord is not the most chipper man this early in the morning. "These woods are full of dangers. Ogres, dragons, and more." With those words spoken, he turns westward, vanishing into the bushes on Raidh's trail. His guards follow, at a safe enough distance to avoid their king's wrath.

Grailan had watched Raidh leave in that mournful silence and expression that complimented the aura of despair, which radiated from his body in an oppressive aura. When Raidh was out of sight, the dead man's armor changed; no longer faded, it was a polished and complete set of black platemail, from which dangerous spikes emerged. One hand held a shield that manifested from it, and the other? An enormous flail with barbed chains holding several large spheres that were equally adorned with curved and deadly spikes. Those spheres resonated their movement against the earth as he turned, and with a slow and particular cadence began to move toward that monolith.

Jerica is a wee bit behind the party that included her husband and sister-wife. Of course, not that far behind and the quartet of men with her seemed more disgruntled and uneasy than usual. Poor dears; they'd let their charge slip past them more than a few times in the recent weeks. Of course, what's a woman to do when she has a job that requires stealth and not a well armed mini-militia? Anyway, Jerica's there way in the back ground but gaining ground at a steady pace.

Raidh is in trouble! She just has a feeling, for now, and quickens her pace back toward camp.

Avaldi shoots Eboric a ‘no shit’ kind of look as the King lists the forest’s various perils and pauses only to take up his sleeved shield and spear before joining the hunt for his stupid, irresponsible, hopefully not-dead sister.

They don’t have long to hunt her before they hear her quiet footfalls in the leaves, the subtle parting of bushes as she passes. Yet another futharking snapping twig. The maiden herself emerges from a stand of sapling birches shortly after, not at all surprised to find that trouble has come looking for her. Hopefully, the scolding she’s in for won’t survive her next words, “Eboric! There’s a dead man asking for you!”

Eboric 's sword clears its sheath at the first sound of Raidh's approach, Eidhur's black blade keening silently in the gloom. When he sees who it is that approaches, however, the king lowers his blade, the words of chastisement forming on his lips, before being cut short by Raidh's words. "A dead man?" He frowns, doing his best to clear his mind of the night's drowsiness, trying to determine just which dead man he must now deal with. Finally, he gives up the hunt. "I suppose I had best see him."

Grailan , by now, has made it back to the monolith and turned to survey the area surrounding with dead, sad eyes.

Jerica can see the signs where Eboric, Raidh and the rest of the party had moved through. No matter how subtle the evidence might be, she was pretty darn good at her job. A small smile touches the assassin's mouth and she picks up her pace. Why? Because they're walking and have been all night. She and the men with her are more than ready for a break.

Raidh dodges the first thwack of the flat of her brother’s spear-blade, eyeing the Half-Arm as she nods to Eboric and gives him the short version, “A dead Knight who goes by ‘Grailan’. He says he has to fight you.”

Avaldi’s quest to smack Raidh is abandoned as he hears this, the Riddarnir warrior suddenly grim again, as it’s plain this is not some kind of joke. His pale blue gaze sweeps the forest, grip tightening on the haft of his spear. He might get a proper fight after all!

Raidh shatters this hope as the party heads toward the monolith,explaining all as she goes, pointing the way in the burgeoning light of dawn, the sky still a washed-out gray that makes everything bleed together gray as well, in the rising fog. Still, signs of her passage are plain enough, she had not been trying to hide them, and they are soon approaching the mysterious standing-stone on its little island, and the corpse in armor who has waited there a long time, and waits for Eboric still.

Monolith

Eboric falls silent at the mention of Grailan's name, and remains quiet as they approach the monolith. It has been years since he last saw his undead thegn, and he struggles to recall just why he might have to fight. Failing that, he emerges from the woods, approaching the monolith and the death knight with bared sword, the ancestral blade murmuring with the soul-might now infused with the werbear's being. "Grailan," Eboric calls, upon seeing the figure. "It has been long since I last saw you. I had thought you truly dead."

Grailan 's expression failed to falter or change as those dead eyes focus upon the king, enthralled in that eternal suffering of sorrow and misery. They briefly break their contact in order to survey the guards, Avaldi, and even Raidh (as Jerica is still trailing behind and unseen as of yet), before with those glossed over irises and pupils he directed the return of his attention toward Eboric. "A blessing that I shall never recieve, my lord," came that voice that resonated, like his aura, some oppressive dread and mourning, belying only subtly the aspect that he was a giant of a man himself and clad in such striking, haunting platemail. "You have arrived. Shamans bound me. You must destroy this monolith, but I must defend it. Only when it is in pieces can I once again fulfill my oath to you. I have no choice -I am bound." Such was the price of being dead and walking among the living. "Do not let your soldiers come close, 'lest my hand is forced against them as well. Break me from these chains."

Jerica happens upon them all, just like that. And when her retinue would have surged forward, she raised her hand to halt them and gesture Toby (because she still can't wrap her tongue around his name) forward to whisper quietly in his bent hear. The look he gave was one of shock but he nodded with only a slight scowl and took his three men a few yards back. Not so far they couldn't react quickly and lend aide however. Seeing Raidh, Jerica made her way towards the plainswoman and her people. Her ears only caught some of what was going on but her eyes saw much. As usual, she remains quiet and observant.

Raidh mutters to Eboric, “And if you lose, he’ll kill you, he says. And still he dares call you ‘my lord’. Not that you’ll lose.” Her disdain is evident, her gaze on Grailan now redolent with the final sentiment of their former conversation.

Avaldi then offers to dispatch and then burn the walking corpse, as is the proper thing to do with Dust-Eaters who yet cling to their dead flesh.

Raidh said to Jerica, "Sister!" She draws the woman in for a brief half-embrace, one arm circling her shoulder. The shieldmaiden nods toward Grailan, "Just in time for the fight." She does not sound all that enthused.

Eboric , catching sight of Jerica, gives her a small smile of greeting, before his attention focuses again on Grailan. "I should expect no less," he says in response to Raidh, and steps forward, raising his left hand in a gesture that halts his men in their tracks, before reaching to his belt to draw his seaxe, baring the short, heavy blade as he steps toward the undead warrior before him. "Would that I had come earlier," he says to Grailan, stepping ever closer to the monolith. "I will do what I can to keep your body whole while I destroy this stone."

Jerica said to Raidh, "So I hear," softly as she accepts the embrace. Brown eyes turn towards the undead and Eboric. "Any bets on how long it'll take Eboric to win this one?"

Grailan 's dead eyes suddenly alit with a crimson energy when Eboric stepped toward him and the monolith, which is the indication of a binding spell at work; the death knight had no choice. The mighty flail was ripped upward expertly and with a fluid motion caused the hilt to point upward while the trio of large, barbed spheres swung with the twitches of a black-platemail'd gauntlet so that a whistling sound invaded the air while they moved in quickening and circular paths. The dread knight then lurched forward; he wasn't particularly fast given his armored form, but strength propelled him with a force enough to bound toward Eboric and close the distance between them to a mere yard or so. Upon such, Grailan planted his booted feet and with a flourish of cape and hood of equal hue to that damned armor, wrenched the hilt downward at the King of Venturil. The flail's ends followed suit with a crashing plummet of bone-breaking intensity, aimed slightly diagonally to hit the shoulder of the mighty royalty with attempt to shatter where bone met socket. But the follow-through attack was already in motion, and downward plummet caused his body to continue to turn into a sort of spin as he moved closer while extending out his shielded arm. It was a backswing of an attack that aimed the side of the defensive piece at the cheek of the male. Grailan's player is rusty.

Avaldi, unlike Raidh, has surmised some strange sense of honor at the root of all this after Eboric’s words to the corpse. While he fully subscribes to the Riddarim attitude toward the undead, the Jarls’ son places matters of honor above it and thus keeps his spear still and his thoughts to himself, a sharp glance toward Raidh warning her to follow suit. Only then is Jerica’s presence noted with a grim nod, the man’s attention soon back on the King and the cadaver, and at that moment Grailan strikes.

Raidh’s teeth grind together, but she does as bid and stands in silence by Jerica’s side.

Eboric is not still as Grailan moves, but instead surges to meet his thegn, the seaxe sweeping upward to catch the flail's extensions near the middle, so that they wrap around the short blade, their spikes ringing harmlessly off of the steel. The warlord rips back and down, hoping to tear the entrapped weapon from Grailan's grasp before the death knight has a chance to react. As the other arm moves in, the werebear raises his right arm to deflect the blow, keeping his word and refraining from blocking with the blade of his sword, but instead meeting Grailan arm-to-arm, a wild grin crossing his features as he exerts his bestial strength in an attempt to force his thegn back and away. Without missing a beat, the king steps in, pulling back his right arm and punching out again, his fist, closed as it is around Eidhur's ringed hilt, swinging remorselessly toward the death knight's face, meaning to drive him to the ground, while Eboric advances toward the monolith, intent on toppling the thing.

Grailan 's dastardly flail, used more oft than not on horseback rather than in such melee skirmish, was indeed wrapped taut around the weapon before ripped from the dead fingers of the knight. It was sacrificed in order for his follow-through attack to continue, which was met with the solid strength turn bestial push from the king. The hulking and armored undead possessed the strength enough to only take a step and a half back from the werebear at the push, before his face suddenly whipped to the side in a flourish of stark white hair from the solid connection of fist mercilessly striking jaw. Such a jaw unhinged and hung grotesquely but the weaponless hand in that black gauntlet lifted and shoved the bone back into position before it descended to his hip to wrap around the hilt of his own blade. A black-steel and jagged sword was pulled free from the slave's sheath, and immediately the creature bound to the spell that trapped him here began to follow his king. There was a certain honor even in the dead man, however, who neither tried to run Eboric through his back nor cut him down when not facing the sentinel. Instead, as if he were going to, the sword is pulled back and leveled between the shoulder blades of his lord, while the hand upon which his shield is strapped to his arm extended in attempt to grasp the Venturil royalty's shoulder to spin him. If it succeeded, the werebear would find himself with the point of that jagged weapon thrust toward his sternum.

Eboric turns at the sound of a sword being drawn, his seaxe swinging instinctively out to swipe the sword away from his chest, allowing the jagged blade to scrape across the metal covering his shoulder. He steps in, using his bulk to his advantage as, once more refraining from using his blades on the death knight, he throws his shoulder out front, meaning to slam in into Grailan's chest to send the undead flying backward. Immediately, the werebear steps back, making for the monolith again, although this time he keeps his eyes on his thegn, only stopping when he can feel the cool stone spire behind him.

Despite the werebear's physical power and strength, the undead man so enthralled into sorrow and despair was exceptionally strong in his own right, as well as bulky when clad in that armor of dark black spikes and platemail. As such, when the King of Venturil slammed his shoulder into the servant's armored chest, he didn't go flying backward. If he needed breath, it would surely be knocked from his lungs in a heap, though, as he stumbled backward momentarily. But the male excelled at combat (it was one of the reasons that Eboric employed him, after all) and was quick to regain his stance as his lord backed toward the monolith. With several yards separating dead from living, the creature yanked up his jagged sword, before thrusting downward to impale the blade into the earth. Violently and suddenly, three skeletons burst from its depths, one with an axe, the other with a broken sword and a shield, and the third with an old, rusted claymore. The armor they wore sparsely was not in any better condition, as with the 'clicks' and 'clacks' of their bones they encircled and approached the king. Meanwhile Grailan yanked his weapon from the earth and began his own approach; deathly slow and foreboding. After the king would dispatch those three, he'd find the sword coming at him in a fluid combination of three strikes; a horizontal slash at his waist from hip to hip, to thrust toward his belly, to kick of his boot aimed squarely at the lord's chest. Grailan had no choice but to attempt to stop Eboric, despite his wish that the King succeed.

Whatever qualms that kept Eboric's blades from Grailan do not seem to apply to the skeletons. He steps in toward the axeman, catching the undead's weapon mid-swing and ripping it away, sliding from the tip of the seaxe to crash into the brush, while the black sword bites down through the decaying skull, the metal emitting a low keening sound, almost inaudible amidst the clash of blades, although Grailan, being dead, hears it more loudly. As the warrior extricates his blade from the skeleton, now properly killed, the other two converge, the claymore scything down toward the struggling king. The seaxe snakes up to catch and hold it, although the force of it stings Eboric's hand, a pain soon forgotten as he pushes off into the skeleton, a bullrush driving the creature bodily into the monolith, rocking the stone construction alarmingly. Pulling back the king begins to slam forward again, although the skeleton is now but scattered bones, but stops himself at a sharp pain in his side; the third skeleton, armed with his shattered sword, stabs at the werebear with the broken end, doing its best to mangle the mail and flesh together. With a bestial roar, Eboric sweeps Eidhur around in a backhanded slash that crunches through the undead's arm and ribcage, driving the remains down and away. Bleeding now, his anger beginning to simmer, the warrior turns to Grailan, turning the first strike more by good chance than skill, his sword catching Grailan's near the hilt, giving the big man leverage to absorb the blow. He steps in with his left foot, seaxe ready to swing, when the sword thrust scrapes along his belly, scoring a line of broken rings and split skin. The simmering anger explodes into rage, and the king squares up to meet Grailan's kick full on, a hideous grin on his face as he ignores the pain and pushes back, meaning to knock the undead off balance while his leg is yet in the air, while the seaxe chops in from the side, aimed to sever the offending leg. Again the warlord steps in, Eidhur's blade, now glowing darkly as the unseen dead of Eboric's people answer the silent call, arcs in from the other side, looking to bury itself in Grailan's ribcage. Eboric tosses away his seaxe, using the freed hand to grapple at his foe's leg, or freshly-cut stump, meaning to take hold and spin the undead around to slam into the stone spire.

The knight of sorrow, in his eternal mourning and despair, did not alter his facial expression from that of some impenetrable sadness that resonated oppressively from his form in dark, dreadful waves even as Eboric made relatively short work of the skeletons that were summoned forth. It neither softened nor hardened in the face of bestial rage that was offered to him as his strike and kick did less damage than intended from the undead man, but this did not keep him from continuing his advance and fight. The werebear of a king, after all, chose very wisely in the power of his servant coupled with the skill that accompanied his dreadfully long existence. So the undead was pushed back only to cater his balance and regain it with a bulky swiftness, though defense wasn't much his forte; in his lack of life, the creature was a virtual tank in his ability to withstand damage and persist in his strikes. Augmented by such a dark platemail armor, it was no wonder that the seaxe didn't chop entirely through the bloodless leg, but rather buried itself half-way through his thigh like a hack against the bark of a thick tree trunk. Grailan offered no betrayal of pain at the sudden wound, instead he used his free hand, armed with the shield over his forearm, to grasp hold of the shoulder of Eboric when the latter took grip on his leg. The undead thereafter was spun and slammed into the stone spire, which left very sizable cracks in it, but because of the entwinement of limbs he brought his 'foe' with him in their grapple. Back to the spire, front to Eboric, and with perhaps only one more hit needed to break the monument that entrapped the undead, the sword of the knight was brought back in their close confines in attempt to press its tip against the gut of the king, where it would seek to bury into him until making itself seen out the other side.

Eboric, his seaxe trapped in the undead flesh of his thegn, is left without a choice, Eidhur being too long and unwieldy in such close quarters. His left hand flicks up to grasp Grailan's blade, his teeth baring in a feral grimace as the weapon digs in, jagged edge cutting through the warlord's gloves to bite flesh as he forces it away from his belly, pushing it out far enough to disentangle himself from the undead thegn. Pulling his injured hand back, he swings Eidhur with the other, the blade aimed to strike Grailan's sword hard enough to knock it from the knight's grasp, or at least force it down long enough for the big man to take one step back and to the side, then launch himself bodily at the monument, the weight of his heavy frame, made all the more weighty by his armor, poised behind one bulky shoulder, so that when he lands the stone crumbles, the top of the spire swaying, then plummeting down, debris pelting the warlord as he rolls away, hoping to avoid the larger stones as they fall.

Grailan 's features remained lifeless and with that powerful and melancholious stare of possession and forced attack as the big man grasped the jagged weapon; those teeth bared in such a feral expression of rage and pain were met only with the oppressive sorrow that was so overpowering, it was as if life itself was being mourned for. The bulky death knight was startling swift not in movement but adaptation, so it wouldn't come as a surprise that as his body was disentangled from his king's own and separated briefly in order for Eidhur to come around, the armored thing saw the movement as an attack. His footing righted and he brought about his longsword to meet the other blade with his jagged edge in a thunderous and echoing clang of blades. This gave Eboric enough time to recollect and launch himself to crash his heavy shoulder against the monument; the thegn watched in silence and ceased his attack. He continued to watch until all of the stones fell around the two, threatening to bury them, before in the midst of the rubble the white-haired dread knight slowly descended to a knee. Eboric climbs slowly to his feet once more, blood dripping from his wounds as he turns to face Grailan. The effort of will it takes to sheath Eidhur is plain to see on the warlord's face, but he manages it at last, forcing himself to a state of calm. "Rise, Grailan. It is good to have you back." He offers a hand to help the undead to his feet, meaning to reclaim his seaxe from the knight's leg soon thereafter.

Raidh has watched the entire, strange debacle in silence, forgoing even reply to Jerica's occasional commentary as the fight progresses, offering her sister-wife only a nod now and then. She's been transfixed, but now shakes her head and rises, clutching at Jerica’s arm and speaking a few words in the woman's ear. The King's wives take their leave, then, so that Eboric and the (to Raidh's thinking) dead thing that won't lie down, to their matters of honor and oaths and whatnot. Whether Grailan follows Eboric or not, the King will find his wives back at camp when he's ready to return.

Grailan 's armored gauntlet met the hand that was outstretched to him and used its aid in order to rise to his feet; he felt no pain from the seaxe's presence, and stood dutifully still while Eboric meant to reclaim it. Yet he spoke, ever the melancholy one, "It is nice to be freed from such lonely bonds, my lord. I am yours to command once more, to bring death and sorrow upon your enemies."

Eboric cannot help but grin as he slides the seaxe back into its sheath. "Oh, I will keep you busy enough, I think. There are many that need a taste of death and sorrow." He turns back toward the camp, where the rest of his men await. "For now, though, I journey to my father's hall. I must bring the rest of my people to my kingdom."

Grailan nodded subserviently; easily he fell in turn and stride a pace beside and behind his lord.