RP:A Trap for Mice and Men, Part 1
Part of the The Most Dangerous Game Arc
Western Frostmaw Gates
Svilfon is a mass of wounds following the end of the Frostmaw Tournament. His face is heavily bruised, he limps while leaving a thin sanguine trail behind him - his leg still leaking blood from the horrible wound in it - and one of his hands is wrapped in a bandage, where he thinks he broke a few bones punching Hildegarde in the face. But he is determined as he stalks through the snow. It was time for revenge, and more than pain and injury would be required to stop him. Alahir has been left behind after a brief argument, and so the wizard walks alone through the snow, until at last he pauses at the gates and speaks, "Lady icicle?" His words are not loud, yet they easily carry on the frigid air - he knew she would hear them.
Hildegarde armour had been tended to by Gikal and Kenhelm, her brother, almost immediately after the duel. More fool her if she were ill-prepared, it was impossible to tell when one might need their armour. She walked at a slower pace than usual, her gut still aching from the final wound of the wizard; her wrist was bared to the elements, the cold and frost making her wound feel much better than a bandage and salve might do. She followed in not long after Svilfon, giving him a look that was extremely conflicted: both friendly yet still scorned. "M'lady?" she called after him, looking to him with a curious expression. Her face only held a small bruise and nothing more, her kind being particularly strong against the physical nature of attacks.
With the creak of wood and crunch of snow, Satoshi lands in front of the wizard and knight, having been perched atop the gate's archway until their arrival. As she straightens from the crouch that's resulted from the leaping drop, the magus regards them both with a stoney look. Mouth set in a grim line, eyes narrow and smouldering, shoulders tense, Satoshi is a creature without the slightest flicker of cheer or amusement. Every line of her body speaks of the stern determination of glaciers, and as she lifts a clenched hand in front of her, her words are as equally frosted, "Today they die. Their last victim died yesterday." Fingers uncurl to reveal Satoshi's palm, and a pile of chipped and bloody scales. Once, their colors were a proud, vibrant emerald, but time, torture, and misery has faded them into a wraith of their former glory. The ragged feather that lies atop them has been through the same hell, yet is still recognizable as once belonging to Emiur.
Svilfon spends a moment looking at what Satoshi holds in her hand, his face seeming calm beneath the anger which rests within his pale gaze, before he turns to look upon Hildegarde. There is much he should say to the dragon, but now is not the time. So all he does is whisper a few quick words, "This is Frostmaw." Perhaps he misread her conflicted look, or perhaps he didn't. Either way, he shrugs lightly even as he returns his gaze to the queen of frost and snow. "Today they die. It is our way, even if it was not his." He motions to what she holds. "Too long have we waited, Satoshi queen. Let us end this now." He nods again quickly, before shifting his gaze off towards the west. He can almost smell the poachers... those who sow a field of death and destruction against Frostmaw's companions... they will reap a harsh harvest indeed.
Hildegarde 's eyes settled onto the raggedy feather and the withered scales that were obviously battered and broken. She looked between Svilfon and Satoshi, offering little words in this situation, "Then we shall bring the justice of Frostmaw to them." The knight had little else to say to support them, for she did not know Emiur as they had done. Alas, she was raising one of his sons: she would avenge his father.
Kirien stumbles, quite literally, out of the gate itself. Not through it, not around it - his body appears to slip out of the iron bars themselves rather than from the empty spaces between them, arms stretching out first and soon followed by the rest of his figure. Looking more than a touch dazed and disorientated, the empath gropes blindly at the air and turns in wary circles, snapping this way and that as though reacting to some unheard sound. “This is not-- this is... oh.” He spins then and comes face to face with Brother, Kindred Spirit, and his dear Knight, and any confusion is torn from Kirien’s expression in that instant. What replaces it is something anguished, dark and heavy, almost afraid. “Oh,” he whispers once more, a step back putting him in touch with the gate again, this time to lean against and find support in the frigid, twisted iron. For a long moment he remains silent, hearing Svilfon’s declarations...no, truths. Red skies and crows - he can almost see them now. “Will you--” The words tumble out but aren’t hesitant, only determined. “--Take me with you. Please.” His wide eyes find Satoshi’s, then.
Satoshi doesn't react with surprise or even a smile at Kirien's appearance. There are no reactions whatsoever from the kit, to anything said or done by the three standing before her now, save to offer a slow blink and a firm nod. With this, she turns on her heel and marches forward into Frostmaw's wilds. Ahead in the distance is the tree line, and just a bit beyond that can be seen the occasional flash of wings, ice wyverns like a flock of vultures circling and diving in the air above a carcass. This is where Satoshi's path is taking them toward.
Svilfon spends a moment regarding Kirien, seeming unsurprised by the empath's appearance, before he shifts his gaze back to Hildegarde. His expression is unreadable for a long time, before he turns and begins to follow Satoshi off into the wilds. He continues to limp as he walks, and absently he draws from the air itself his Xalious-wood wand. He begins to spin the weapon through the fingers of his uninjured hand, using it as a simple distraction from the pain he feels. Yet even still, there is a determination in his stride - it was time for revenge, and his growing anger is hard to suppress.
Hildegarde was the only who seemed happy at Kirien's appearance, going so far as to smile and nod her head in his direction. She allowed Satoshi and Svilfon to pace ahead, to carve their path out to the poachers, as she moved to Kirien. "Enemies of Frostmaw shall die this night," she said quietly, while offering her arm out to him. She knew he could traverse the snow and ice of Frostmaw just fine, but this was her sworn duty, injury or not; amongst friends or not. She should perhaps say something to Svilfon, but only when the time was right.
Kirien has felt this empty wasteland before. Empathy is not required to understand such a hollow sensation, but it does help him to remember it, to reach to its very depths, and to strengthen his own resolve through it. If he can do...something. Anything at all. So after meeting Svilfon’s eyes and saying nothing, he pushes off the gate and begins to follow in the wizard’s footsteps, treading in each depression in the snow created by his weight. They have not really spoken in a while but there are more pressing matters at hand, and besides, Hildegarde is speaking. Kirien turns his head to regard her, taking in the fleeting feeling of a smile. He can’t quite summon one in response, unfortunately. His fingers brush her own extended ones but he does not take the offered arm, instead murmuring back, “You’re still injured. I don’t want to weigh you down,” and then dipping both hands into his coat pockets.
Satoshi carries on in silence, her usually animated self all but banished in favor of the cold, sharp sword that her mind is presently. Somewhere deep down, she is comforted by the presence of two of her family, and a knight she's grown so fond of--even if she's baffled by that stalwart code of honor. But now is not the time for merry-making or relishing on the company of loved ones, not when Emiur's remains weigh heavy in her hand and on her mind. Like a magnet, the scales and feathers draw her toward the approaching forest, and the flock of wyverns within. Their eager screams of bloodlust travel far over the snowy plains, muffled only when the saurian's dive below the evergreens' branches. Clearly, they have found a feasting ground so abundant that conflict and stealth is unnecessary, and as each one dives and eventually glides back up into the air, their white hides become more and more tainted with crimson. The wyverns are feeding well, and thus oblivious to their surroundings--as Satoshi intended.
Svilfon walks behind Satoshi, his gaze shifting from left to right. He doesn't really expect too many early surprises, knowing the queen of Frostmaw would sense them quickly, but weighed against this is the obvious skill these poachers have. They slew two mighty pscionic couatls, and then they were brave enough to enter this frozen kingdom, knowing well the reputation of Satoshi and her powerful kin. They must have some preparations in store, unless they are simply lucky fools. But the wizard doubts this very much - little trace of their actions were left in Venturil, and even the one who was slain by Tenebrae held no useful information, in life or death. They were canny, and so the hunters who stalk them must be equally so. The wyverns are given cursory inspection, but little more than that - Satoshi was leading them towards them, she clearly had a plan. The wizard doesn't overly care what it is - he would react to the situation as needed. But despite his anger and burning need for revenge, he is careful no more of his friends will fall to these men... the world would probably not survive his rage if they did.
Hildegarde shrugged her shoulder, "You're as light as a feather, Kirien," she said truthfully, before retracting her arm and continuing onwards. She fell as silent as the rest of them, wondering what exactly they'd encounter today and how they would be dealt with. But her eyes caught sight of the wyverns, hearing them crow their delight in having something to feast upon. She knew their crows and cries would serve as a distraction, but seeing her kindred engage in a feast made her eager to hurry and get to the delivering of justice.
Kirien slanted Hildegarde a bemused sidelong look for that remark. A boulder is more likely, he thinks while also making the decision not to correct her. More than anything, he watches the surrounding landscape with eyes as sharp as a falcon’s, blind but not unseeing at all - Svilfon’s keeping an eye on their flanks and the genasi is observing all the earth around and below them, extending his sight yet further with each step. The graceful, vicious spin and dance of the feeding wyverns is lost on him but their delighted cries are not, reaching his ears with a piercing clarity, and Kirien begins to understand quickly enough that they are headed toward the noisy group. It’s only when he passes beneath the low-hanging bough of a tree, one weighted down with inches of snow, that he abruptly freezes in his steps as though shot, blinking wide eyes at the forest ahead. He pauses for a second, almost hesitant, before pushing forward and taking a couple of particularly long strides so as to catch back up with Svilfon’s shadow. But something feels distinctly off ahead of them and whatever it is, it’s clearly unsettling Kirien.
Satoshi, upon entering the tree line, halts and raises a hand to gesture the others do the same--a questioning glance tossed to Kirien, as if she senses his sudden shift in wariness. When she speaks, her voice is low, yet carried by the arctic breeze to each of their ears despite that, "From here on, we need silence and stealth to the utmost of our abilities. I have done what I can to mask our approach, but our prey are masters of the forests, every precaution is to our advantage, every misstep is to theirs." And it is true, Satoshi has gone through great pains to make the area ahead so convoluted that the poachers might overlook an error or two. From the trees onward, the snow is trampled, upturned, and disheveled by the countless hooves of a reindeer herd in migration. The immense herd's movements are not unseasonal, although Satoshi had a hand or two in guiding them through this particular path, where their masses would turn the forest floor into an unreadable mess... and would bring them tromping straight through one of Frostmaw forest's largest clearings. A clearing that is playing centerstage for Satoshi's trap...
Svilfon is not particularly adept at silence and stealth, yet he nods regardless. The Xalious-wand's dancing between his fingers stops, and the wizard drops it - letting it fade back to its home within the Mage's Tower. He draws in a quiet breath, despite not needing to do so, before he tugs his hat to the side of his head and moves to catch a glimpse of the clearing from behind a tree. Satisfied at last, he returns his proud headwear to its usual place before speaking in tones which are easily heard by his companions, yet do not travel past where they wait. "What would you have me do, Satoshi queen?" He was content enough to let her lead the trap she set; being a weapon of revenge is all the satisfaction he needs.
Hildegarde could be considered the least stealthiest of them all, what with her armour and considerable body mass, she was still dutiful and honour bound to at least try her very best. She nodded to Satoshi, as if to confirm her wishes in the effort of being stealthy. She looked between them all, whispering gently: "M'lady, m'lord and wizard," she knew he hated the term lord, "it is often wise to have a plan in the event our party is caught and things go... well, awry," she said almost sheepishly. "It would be unwise to slay if we are caught, for there could be more hidden away in some kind of base..." she was trying to think of some kind of back up plan.
Kirien, by comparison, is quite the adept. Stealth and silence lie at the very roots of his second Home...as well as dreadful violence, which he could certainly still bring to the table here as well. Even as he answers Satoshi’s glance with an apologetic shake of the head and a mouthed, “Just your scene,” the empath is drawing something from his coat pocket - something which is simply far too large to fit in there by natural means but, considering its metallic nature, it’s likely Kirien shrunk it and does on a daily basis. The spiked end of Nuial’Ashier is driven into the thick snow as the enormous drowic battleaxe is flipped out and set down, and Kirien struggles out of his coat. He’s beginning to understand why Kuzial hates these things. Tying it around his hips instead, he stretches once, bare chest exposed; diamond and stone uncaring of the bitter chill, the remaining flesh either too unfeeling or used to the temperature. He cants his head to Hildegarde. “I’m listening,” he says in an expectant tone, ready to hear out the rest of her plan whether or not his siblings feel the same.
Satoshi bites back a smile. Of course, when she says they need silence and stealth, suddenly the group is chattier than they've been since starting out. Such is life with them, and Satoshi wouldn't have it any other way. And so she lets Hildegarde speak and hash out a plan--even if the magus, and most likely the wizard too, has little intention of following plans. While the knight speaks, and Kirien takes on a lumberjack clothing style, the kit sends her mind and magic outward in tentative tendrils, snaking through the snow and urging it to react slowly, delicately, and as naturally as possible. Above, the remnants of the storm persist in its heavy snowfall, a thick cloak to obscure vision, and made all the worse as a low, dense fog begins to rise. Satoshi cannot weave spells of invisibility, but mist and snowstorms are just as effective at blinding foes of their approach, while doing nothing to deter the wyverns from their feasts. "Ahead, there is a clearing. I've set a very tempting treat their for our rabbits, one I highly doubt they can resist after going a month without being able to make a capture. We will wait within the trees until they strike. We'll strike then. I know where their base is located, but we cannot enter it as we are now. We need them--but we don't need them -alive-."
Svilfon turns to regard the queen, even as the snow and fog begins to drench the area; to obscure it in a blanket of mist which aids them further in hiding amongst the trees. He flashes her a dark, feral smile which says all the words he does not. Things going awry was the most fun, especially when it involved killing people who really, really needed killing. Nevertheless, as the smile begins to fade, he turns and looks back at Hildegarde. She wanted a backup plan, she could suggest one, regardless of whether Svil would follow it or not.. Unknown to the wizard, already some of the poachers have begun to move towards the clearing. Yet, they are canny, more so than the fools who simply seek trophies in their homes, or stories to woo whores. These men hunted for more than sport; it was life to them... the greater the slaying, the happier they are. Few in Hollow who live amongst the shadows are richer than these men, and it shows in the preparations they too have made. Not only protecting their make-shift home, but also in small things. Their boots are made in Trist'Oth, and have woven into them spells of minor-levitation. They can cross snow without ever touching it, moving in a silence few can mirror. Their weapons are not just designed for killing dragons; their leader knew they would be hunted here, and he has prepared himself to face the queen and her mighty kindred. He would stay behind from this initial apparent hunt, to let the lesser members of his group spring any traps sent against them. The men do not know the group is so close to them... this doesn't mean his men are not ready, though. Always their weapons are sharp, their eyes keen, their senses focused. They would not have come to this frozen hell-hole if they were less than supurb at what they do...
Hildegarde was quickly understanding that her suggestion of a plan was perhaps unwanted. She looked to Kirien, before shaking her head to the other two, "Nothing," she said, "We won't need it." She said, somewhat to just get on with it and in part due to her own lack of confidence with stratagem. Leather gloves curled around the shaft of Whim, the knight now silent like any sentinel. She would wait for something that required her skills, for she did not wish to further bother the party.
Kirien lofts a brow at his knight, not condescendingly, and mostly out of interest. “If you have a plan, best it should be known, no?” A hand brushes the side of her arm and bestows a sense of quiet reassurance through the fleeting touch, before he turns away and sniffs the air. In the intake of breath, he fills his lungs with the scents of winter mist and moisture, the earthy tang of the forest mixed in with a more bitter edge in the snows, tainted by blood...and then he picks up on something else, something different. Kirien blinks, leans forward a touch with vulpine ears pricked despite the fact there is little to listen to beyond the sweep of wyvern wings and feral, jubilant roars. Even so, he seems to be straining every sense he has, as though trying to make himself hear something that cannot be heard. Maybe it was just a feeling...maybe. He shakes his head, glances at the others, then whispers, “They’re ghosts. Living ones. For now.” A grin follows and it’s everything Kirien is usually the opposite of, all vicious sharpness, bright eyes lit with anticipation of the hunt and...revenge. Perhaps he’s been learning something. That’s all he says, and then Kirien is gone; a shadow behind a tree that flickers then becomes still again, as the empath breaks from the pack and slips away to the left, sticking to the darkened spaces behind low-hanging branches and thick trunks, staying low to the ground. He treks away from the clearing at first before swinging back around, every step sending out another net of vision in the hopes he might pick up a presence. The emotions are there but the bodies he cannot truly see, which makes the task of finding them a little more difficult. Diamond fingers curl round the ruby hanging from his neck and lift it, so Kirien can press the whisper of a kiss to the faceted surface and murmur against the gem, “For luck. Blood and Ends and time will tell, hm?”
Satoshi watches Kirien depart with an expression distant and thoughtful, as if she too has caught hints of... something. Something just out of the range of her senses, ghostly fingers tracing an invisible edge, and thus made all the more distinct for its separation from the conglomeration of creatures and elements that is Frostmaw's lifeforce. Satoshi's hand clenches over the remains of Emiur. "So it begins." Hildegarde and Svilfon are given a glance and a nod before the magus darts off, feet as silent as light upon the snow as the most willowy of elves, the barest sound of a scrap as she leaps into the trees instantly muffled by the thick fogs. While Kirien has gone in a direction well suited to flanking the clearing, Satoshi has chosen to move above the ground level, gliding among the mist-clad branches like a phantom. As she travels through the trees, the eidolon's mind dwells on the events of yesterday. Of finding Emiur, beaten, ravaged, harvested, and all but dead, tossed out in the snow as his usefulness waned. Of speaking with the couatl, forced to sift through his immeasurable agony to find the words, the thoughts, the information... the gratitude, for saving his offspring. Of begging for him to hold on, to fight, to live, pleads made in vain. Of apologies for waiting, for making him suffer, and of reassurances that no resentment was carried. And of the couatl passing, Satoshi's voice too weak a thing to truly speak her sorrow, so that Frostmaw's lands and the Ruins' spirits lifted their cries instead for all to hear. All of it sits in Satoshi's mind, fresh, poignant, and keen, a fuel that drove her to the layered trap waiting for her hated rabbits. Oh, how they would learn what it is to steal from Lady Frostmaw and her family.
Svilfon turns to Hildegarde as the terramancer and ice-magus vanish from the clearing. A distracted look washes over his bruised face for a moment, before he takes a step towards her and speaks quiet words, "We will deal with what happened between us another day, though the past should be left where it rests." He quickly nods then, "And as for this... well, what's the worse that can happen? We will find our revenge, Hildegarde the Silver, and by the balls of Sven himself, hairy as they are, we will not fail in this!" He reaches out and just briefly touches her shoulder, before turning back towards the clearning. "We are Frostmaw, after all." With that said, the wizard vanishes into a cloud of smoke which soon lazily drifts up into the mists... As for the poachers, they continue ever forward, silent as eldritch spirits in the night. Spread out they have, to ensure their quarry cannot escape. Many carry crossbows, though some have enchanted spears which fly fast and true. They shift through the trees, moving towards the orgy of blood in the center of the clearing. When close to it, the first of them clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, making a sound much like an otter would. This is the signal to attack, and they move as one... yet the poachers, canny and clever, spy more than their next payday. One of them spots the terramancer and his savage exultion would be the only thing which betrays him to the man, before he lifts his crossbow and fires a poisoned dart right at Kirien. Its tip is heavily enchanted with a variety of spells to ensure things which it strikes fall almost immediately into unconsciousness... a refined and arcane version of the drow's favoured weapon. Another had watched the wizard vanish, and so he comes silently behind Hildegarde, intent on driving his spear into her back. The rest, four of them, move towards the center of the clearing, all preparing to attack the wyverns, ignorant of the ice magus's presence, and unknowing where the wizard has vanished too...
Hildegarde wanted to say something to Svilfon, it was made clear in how she drew breath and was prepared to speak out, but then he was talking about balls; hairy ones and she cringed a little. She had done her best to avoid that sort of talk all her life, goodness, even the term 'bitch' was absolute vulgarity to her! But as the wizard disappeared, the Silver looked lost for a moment! Each of them had stealth and she did not, all she had was her might; her fury and her natural gifts. The Silver rolled her eyes in frustration, determined to go in the opposite direction as Kirien, only for her senses to seemingly implode with activity. The wind carried a scent, but it carried the 'twang' of a crossbow trigger. Hilde was no sharpshooter or elvish scout, she could scarcely make out where the noise originated, much less than who it was for. But that scent was close to her; so close she could near enough taste it. Scale tipped ears twitch, as she hears the drawing of breath as someone readies his spear for her back, causing her to whirl defensively and grip Whim with both hands: pulling it upwards to deflect the blow. She could not allow fear to overtake her, she had made that mistake once before, she wouldn't make it again. With the blow deflected, she stepped in and smashed her face against her would be attacker's, watching him stumble back in his agony as the blood left his easily broken nose. Gauntleted arms snaked around his neck, muscles flexing as she held him still in a strangle hold.
Kirien’s cold fingers are still curled around that pendant when a rising in emotion finally allows him to zero in on a poacher’s location...and just as the hunter happens to spot him, too, and fires. Habit tells the empath not to bother avoiding the bolt but instinct has other ideas - unfortunately it does not react quite quickly enough to save him. Kirien does a good job of throwing himself backward in a haphazard flip, but all his manoeuvring is for naught as the dart catches him right in the shoulder, the impact of its enwoven enchantments enough to send Kirien tumbling over backwards in the snow, dizzy and disorientated. He’s only saved from being knocked out entirely by virtue of the part of his body that took the dart - the flesh on his shoulders long ago gave way to diamond, and the enchantment was not exactly designed with him in mind. As such, it doesn’t take him out and Kirien, falling to hit the ground a second time after rolling over, forces his wavering consciousness to focus as much as he can in an attempt to pull of a rather risky bit of magic. He’s not particularly good at it on the best of days, and certainly not like this...but with sufficient concentration, he manages to latch on to a nearby patch of ground with his mind for the briefest second, which is all he needs. And so he falls, and where he would have landed on his back, instead he vanishes entirely, as though he’d only ever been an apparition. The poacher, mildly bewildered by this, does not have long to investigate. Kirien’s awkward terramantic-teleportation promptly drops the genasi right on top of the man’s head, and he most definitely is not as light as a feather with all those rocky limbs. Shaking hands drop Nuial’Ashier and he pins the poacher’s arms with his legs, fingers smothering his nose and mouth before even the whisper of a scream can exit.
From among the trees, amber-flecked eyes watch the shadowy bulk of shapes moving among the fog. Without their feet touching the snow, it is a trial for Satoshi to track the movements of the poachers, aided only by her natural senses and the phantom-light sensations of their forms brushing through the mist. It's only enough to paint her a vague image of her surroundings. It's all she needs as she waits. No spells come from the magus, for she knows the poachers each wear a ward of anti-magic to deflect direct assaults of the arcane. It is how they are able to counteract the most potent abilities of their prey, despite most being humanoids of the smaller variety: gnomes, fermin, a smattering of dwarves, and a number of pygmy humans from the isles around Rynvale. They're small, quick, pack-minded, and well-prepared, a combination of effects well-suited to catching an arrogant dragon or proud couatl offguard. Satoshi has guessed the group had some means of combating powerful magic, and Emiur had confirmed it the night prior when he'd filled her mind with all he'd learned and suffered, truly defining them as a quarry worth approaching with respectful wariness.
Despite what Hildegarde might think, Satoshi is going into this in a far from haphazard manner. More than just the four Frostmaw hunters are present to combat the poachers. Much, much more, for Satoshi has devoted every waking moment since Emiur's death to ensuring she's prepared. The first part of the trap waits within the clearing, buried beneath the lure of ecstatic wyverns. The clearing is scattered with bodies, a bloody scene starring a frost worm and a pack of Winter wolves, all dead in what appears to have been a vicious battle between the two forces. Satoshi has arranged it as such near the poachers' hideaway, and ensured the wyvern flock would find it and begin feasting, to create too enticing an opportunity. No doubt some would suspect a trap. In fact, Satoshi's counting on it. She's counting on them being so certain of finding opposition and wardens waiting in the trees, that they fail to look deep beneath the snow where the elaborate lines of a magic circle have been engraved into the permafrost. The sigil-rich circle is not all that lies under the snow, however, for while the frost has been thickly churned by the passing reindeer, the hillocks, furrows, and mounds formed throughout the forest are not completely random... beneath Frostmaw's arctic fur lurks more surprises for the poachers, the moment they draw near. And so, Satoshi waits. Either the poachers will be defeated by Kirien, Svilfon, and Hildegarde, or they will manage to persevere, and then go to claim their prize and return to their base.
Satoshi doesn't intend for them to make it home. Nor does the Eyrie.
Svilfon appears again first before Kirien, who is smushing the poacher foolish enough to try and destroy the potent terramancer. The wizard speaks quick words to his Coterie brethren, “We don't need them alive... but ensure he suffers before you end the bastard.” The wizard drops to a knee and makes a strange mark on the back of the poacher's head with his finger, before he vanishes again in the same fashion he arrived; merely disappearing within a cloud of smoke. It's not long before he is back beside Hildegarde, in which he repeats his words to her, though this time he makes a mark on the poacher's fastly-turning-purple and oh-so-bloodied face. With a wink at the knight, and the further spoken words of, “Frostmaw justice, remember.”, the wizard again fades from sight...
The poachers continue forward towards the wyverns, ignorant of the preparations Satoshi has made, though they are potent trackers... they have the 'itch'. They know not all their men are in position, and that wraiths in the shadows are hunting them. But they show little fear – this prize of wyverns is too great to simply pass up after a scrap-filled month of inactivity amongst themselves, pinned as they were by the storm. There is great value in the wyverns' scales and claws, in teeth and bones, flesh and skin. The first of the poachers, a foul little fellow who looks like the bastard offspring of a hobbit and a troll, stops when he has almost emerged from the trees into the feasting area. The shadows around him seem almost to cling to the man, his enchantments clearly giving extra stealth in the darkness of mist and snow. He wastes little time in dropping to a knee. He pulls out a crossbow first, and lays it on the snow – within easy reach if this truly is a trap – before he pulls from his back a runed spear, retracts his arm and prepares to hurl it at the first of the wyverns. Across from him the same actions are being repeated by the other poachers, except by one, who merely keeps his gaze floating around the trees, ready to give ample warning if any blatant traps are sprung. Though, not all of them are there; one of the poachers who wasn't foolish enough to attack Hildegarde and Kirien is no longer with them. Regardless, there is a silent counting of three amongst the dastardly poachers, before all of them would throw their spears if not stopped – none of them seeking the hearts of their prey, rather seeking just to embed the enchanted tips of their weapons through the scales, to drop them with a powerfully enchanted poison which will, albeit temporarily, make them immoble. Then the nets and ropes can come, pinning the mighty beasts down so they can be returned alive to their master for... parts.
The wizard had taken the missing member of the wolf-like pack – appearing behind him before whipping up his hand and wrapping it around the fermin's throat. It was his intention to teleport the man back to the initial clearing, so they could... question him... but as Svil tries to enact his teleporting, he realizes the man's powerful enchantments are not going to allow such magical travel. He tries to react quickly, but is soon bitten by the little rat-fellow, before being hurled over his shoulder into a tree. The wizard lands roughly on the ground, before lifting his hands in apparent surrender... The look on his face would betray that he's not afraid, though. He's more curious as he waits there, bleeding from his bandaged hand where it was bitten, quite interested to see what Satoshi would do before he decides the best way to act. He even goes as far to speak quietly to his apparent captor, “You have no idea, foolish poacher, what you have awoken in coming here... Beasts beyond your imagination have turned you from hunter to hunted... you are doomed.” The fermin of course replies with a curse and jabbing of his spear, which the wizard adheres to – falling into silence and awaiting what will come with a sort of peaceful excitement.
Hildegarde was squeezing the life, somewhat quietly, out of the poacher who saw fit to try and foolishly end her. Her muscular arms were squeezing out his air and constricting his windpipe so much that he could not draw any more breath in. But then the wizard was before her and reminding her whose justice she was delivering exactly. The Silver gave a nod of her head, before tightening her grip to be sure the man had gone entirely limp and dead in her arms, but she could not leave it at that. She whispered: "Your soul is my burden now. It will find peace when I meet my End," she dropped the body with little love, "only if you are worthy." Alas, out of these four would be hunters, only one was a dragon. A dragon who was protective of her kind and sought to protect them from those who might do them harm. So, to see spears raised and aimed at her kindred, she could scarcely stand by idly and let it happen. Her eyes searched for Kirien, Svilfon or Satoshi - anyone - to try and figure out what she should do. After all, she did not wish to ruin any plan that might be in the works by charging in and trying to save her kin. The burden of a knight was to often make hard choices in life and the Silver could consider this as one of those difficult choices. Whim twirled in her hand, as she made up her mind and darted off to the right; moving as swiftly as her armoured form could carry her! She needed to protect the innocent, this was her business. If she could flank them and take down another poacher, she may stall their assault on the wyverns.
Svilfon gets a feral smile from his brethren in response to that, but the wizard has vanished again before Kirien can offer a verbal answer as well. Beneath the empath, the poacher is putting up a commendably valiant struggle for his life and, were he any bigger, Kirien might be having trouble - his stony affliction often toys with the effectiveness of what were once-natural abilities and his vampiric strength has waned greatly...something which causes him immense frustration at times. “Foolish poacher, you have no idea,” Kirien hisses; an unwitting echo of words spoken by Svilfon only moments earlier, in another location. He begins to rise, awkwardly, a boot pressed firmly to the man’s throat and the other resting on his chest to ensure he stays down, as his fingers find the shaft of Nuial’Ashier once more. The poacher’s breath comes in sharp, thin gasps, each tiny particle of air precious due to the restriction on his airways, and each of those breaths all the more panicked as the genasi brings the weapon up high above both their heads...and swings it down again in a single, smooth blow.
It is a truly bloodcurdling scream that rents the air apart, cutting through even the jubilant calls of the wyverns; a scream so terrible, so pain-filled, so suddenly desperate for the comforts of a swift death, that it provokes goosebumps to prick on the skin and the trees to shiver down to their roots. The other poachers do their best to ignore the agonised cries of their comrade. The prospect of the lucrative profit to be earned from these wyverns is too enticing an opportunity - one or two lives are not worth the amount of gold the survivors will make on this haul, if they do make it out alive. They are knowledgeable in their quarry, and through their scrutiny it does not take them long to notice that some of these wyverns bear curious features and colourations; rose gold-tinted scales where they might normally bear frosty blue-tinged hues, and smoother spines and odd, fanned tails. Rarities for sure. Definitely not beasts they will allow to slip away just because they doubled back to help a fallen colleague. Unfortunately for them, they do not know why exactly the young wyverns display such traits, bar the assumption of cross-breeding...but it is about to make itself very obvious indeed. And it is angry. A strange, eerie silence falls across the forest and carpets it like freshly-fallen snow, the noise of the wyverns becoming hollow and muffled, and even the trees seem to cease their movements as a soft rush of air whistles overhead, heard for a moment and then gone, an incorporeal-- a phantom whisper. One of the watchmen, a quick-eyed, sharp of hearing fermin with a missing eye, whispers to the man next to him, “Swear I saw a flash of gold in the mist just now, above the trees.” Amused, the other whispers back, “Already seeing the money, huh?” A remark the fermin frowns at in distaste, for he is certain what he saw is not a dreamer’s illusions of profit and riches, but something far more solid. And then the silence is shattered once again by a deafening roar and the thunderous beat of wings, a larger wyrm than the ice wyverns diving out of the fog to sweep about the clearing, churning up a blinding flurry of snow. Pale light catches on golden scales and refracts, causing Nameless to shimmer like living lightning amidst the white as he pulls up, hovers before the poachers, and unleashes a second utterly ear-shattering bellow upon them. There is rage, so much rage; he is furious that someone would attempt to hunt and kill his family, his offspring, and he is hell bent on defending them. Younger wyverns still dart about the place, seeking whatever scraps they can carry off with them to feed on elsewhere while the poachers are distracted by their alpha. They are lingering over the unlikely feast, reluctant to leave despite the apparent danger - it is not often they find so much food strewn out for them like this. But one has already fallen, as a poacher startled by Nameless’ arrival flung a spear at him, the aim awry in his surprise, and it struck one of the smaller beasts instead. This only adds further fuel to the fire of the sand wyvern’s anger, his spike-tipped tail whipping out to slam against the man and send him sailing back, his armour forcefully bent inwards, his ribs likely cracked. Were it not for his enchanted armour, he’d likely have become a humanoid kebab.
Meanwhile, Kirien is mostly oblivious to the sounds of heavy wingbeats and whirling snow somewhere nearby. He was...busy. His face and chest are as bloody as Nuial’Ashier’s blade and the empath looks distinctly satisfied with himself, holding himself in a much more confident, sturdy manner. He steps off the body to briefly admire his handiwork, from the ragged mess of the man’s neck and torso to the thick vitae pooling around him and oozing into the snow...to the man’s severed legs and enchanted boots, the latter of which is the most thoroughly destroyed and now barely recognisable as ever having been footwear. “Much better,” he decides with a firm nod, and then shakes his head. There was a reason he did not kill the poacher straight away, beyond the pressing urge to torture him a little (Kuzial would be proud) - peering into the mind of another is all the easier when said person is still alive, and Kirien extracted as much useful information as he possibly could before finally draining him of his remaining blood. Now, he just has to shake off the residual echoes and focus on the here and now...because he is not done just yet. None of them are.
With Nameless' sudden appearance, the first part of Satoshi's trap is sprung despite her not having given the signal. It can't be helped, not with the sand wyvern screaming his rage, they just have to answer his call... And so, the many mounds of snow scattered through the forest and clearing erupt, sending blinding flurries into the air to mingle with the fog, a frosty smokescreen that blocks out sight so that those unfortunate enough to be near the mounds don't see their doom until it's too late: the Eyrie's own pygmy ice wyverns. Since the last time the Time Lord had threatened Frostmaw, Satoshi has required the smallish wyvern-riders of the Eyrie to learn from the methods of Kirien's desert beast. And they have learned well, adapating his methods of dune-diving to work within the snow, further aided by enchantments from the Ice Queen so that they slip through the snows as smoothly as water. Like orcas bursting from the ocean to snap up hapless sea lions, the Eyrie's wyverns strike, and poachers drop. With the fog's thick blanket, it is difficult to see the scene, but the cold does well to carry the noise of screams and roars, the clatter of weapons dropped and armor crushed. The poachers are fine hunters of aerial beasts, but they've never encountered ones that strike from below the earth. Like the poachers, these permafrost wyverns are small, much smaller than their cousins, and exceptionally fast, like cobras they strike out, taking a limb or chunk of flesh before dissolving into the snows again to circle around and snap up another piece of their prey. Watching this, Satoshi begins to think she may not need to trigger the magic circle aspect of the trap. The wyverns and Nameless are doing a fine job on their own, aided all the more when the wild flock is swayed by their kins' cries and wheel around to begin attacking from the air.
But a number of the beasts, in sky and snow, fall at the hands of the last startled or quicker minded poachers as they regroup around the tallest of their pack. Out of place among his comrades by size he is, and all the more by race, for he is clearly a wood elf, savvy of the land and yet ill enough of character to cheerfully pillage Nature's bounties. In the face of the wyvern storm, the elf does not falter. He's already downed a portion of the flock and their snow-diving cousins, for his weapon of choice is a whip, a lengthy cord of braided mithril, as light as air and quick as lightning, covered in barbs that carry the same consciousness-devouring spells his comrades' spears do. It's a devastating weapon in the face of a multi-pronged attack and he wields it most deftly. With each crack of the whip, more wyverns drop until the wild ones become wary of attacking, fearful of the deafening sound. They bunch around Nameless, his bulk and familiarity a source of reassurance for them all. Except that the elf now turns his eyes on the sand wyvern, followed by the gaze of his recovered kinsmen. As one they lift what spears remain to them, as the wood elf's arm flexes and snaps backward and forward to send the coils of the whip screaming for Nameless' neck.
Svilfon smiles across at the poacher who holds the spear so close to his body as the fermin's eyes melt into a sea of despair. He can hear the triumphant cries of the wyverns, heralded as they were by the mighty call of Nameless. The wizard remains quiet for a long time, before he speaks above the commotion coming from the clearing. “You know, poacher, your little gang is doomed. More than wizards and knights, queens and princes, come for you this day. This whole land, its armies and its deadly - oh so deadly - creatures seek your demise. So come,” The wizard stands, his hands still in the air, “You have a prisoner, let's go barter for your freedom so I can enjoy watching the rest of your kindred suffer.” For just a moment hope is born into the fermin's eyes, an escape from this trap more layered and deadly than he ever expected. And it's only then that the wizard acts. He makes a brief signal with his hand, before a strange mooing noise rips through the clearing. Startled, the fermin turns his gaze, but it is too late. The wizard's winged goat soars in from above and headbutts the man with all its considerable, if confounded, fury. The fermin is sent hurling to the side, his spear lost, and within mere moments Svilfon is on him, his wand again in his hand, its tip pointed at the fermin's eye. The wizard's voice has shifted from almost casual to being sibilant and cruel, hatred evident on a face more used to jovial smiles than snarls of anger. “You think for one second, you lice infested rodent, that I could ever forgive you? You slew a friend of mine... for so long we hoped, just as you did now, that there was another fate other than death for him... but it was not to be... now you can understand in part what we felt.” The fermin's mouth opens to reply, before Svilfon drives his wand into the fermin's furred face, before releasing his anger. Waves of fire come from the powerful Xalious wood, flooding the creature's body. His cries are pitiful to hear as his insides are slowly devoured with a horrific cruelty, until at last all that's left is a husk of flesh which slowly begins to melt into the snow. Satisfied at last, the wizard marks his distorted features as he did the others, before standing and hopping onto his goat's back. “Come! Let us see how our kindred fares.” The goat oinks in agreement, the sound strangely noble... well, to the wizard, anyway... before wings flap and the pair take to the skies, soon making their way back to the clearing to see how the battle is going....
Hildegarde was preparing to make her way into the clearing, to tumble forth and down as many poachers as her might and stamina might allow. But alas, Nameless had flown into the scene followed by those pygmy riders who were whipped into submission. Her eyes locked onto the poacher who held the whip: the tallest of the bunch, it seemed. She felt something bubble up in her gut, a feeling that so rarely visited her or bothered her. Anger. Anger was not something the knight felt often, due to her naivety and willingness to forgive. But to see her own kindred whipped and mutilated by these creatures - for they did not count as people in her eyes - it filled her with a fury that could not be ended without punishing those who deserved it or caused it. So she growled; snarled as she picked her target and ran for him, running like a bull for the matador, only she would not be fooled like a bull. His attention was on Nameless, not the knight who bulldozed for him. "You are filth," she hissed once she was close enough, muscular arm coiling around his neck as her gloved fingers invaded his mouth. It may have looked unusual, but the punishment she was about to deliver was most cruel and exceedingly effective. Hildegarde - though she was sweet, forgiving, foolish and ever so kind - had the strength of ten men, maybe even more, but she would modestly say she had the strength of only five! And so, she used her strength: pulling her hand upward against the screaming protests of the poacher, pulling and pulling, "You whip my kind? You steal us and torment us? Here, poacher, here is your reward!" she roared, until the top of his skull tore off and all that remained was his bottom jaw and body, ready to fall limp whenever she let go.
To the crack of the whip Nameless responds with a vicious lash of spiked tail, and there is fire in his eyes and on his tongue. It appears the poachers were not the only ones to come prepared and the wyvern has learned well from his friend’s past exploits - his jaws part as if to unleash a formidable roar but something far deadlier than sound comes instead. It catches the men unawares even as they watch Nameless flip a small vial out of the corner of his mouth and crush it with his tongue, dousing clear liquid down his gullet. Honourable as he may be, the wyrm is not above resorting to trickery to gain the upper hand...and potent fire elixirs are a particularly effective form of trickery. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow...and then a veritable torrent of flame bursts from the depths of his throat, so hot it sears the very air and melts the ice cover from the surrounding trees, blasting through the thickened mist to burn all in its path. Poachers yell in surprise and dive for cover, all except for the whip-wielding elf, who is not deterred in the slightest. His insidious weapon finally hits its mark with remarkable accuracy, cutting easily through the fiery storm. Startled, Nameless chokes on a second burst of flame when he is electrified by those powerful incapacitating magics and the thin length of metal wraps tightly around his neck. Down the great alpha goes in a sunset cloud of blazing red and orange, wings crumpling inwards as he tumbles out of the sky and into the snow - his fall is heralded by the poachers’ cheers and the enraged cries of what wyverns remain. Many of them depart in fright, swift wingbeats carrying them away from the battle and off across the forest in search of safety. But all is not lost. Though shocked and grounded by the attack, disorientated and confused, dangerously vulnerable, sheer fury serves as the fuel to drive Nameless on; the instinctual urge to protect his family forces him to remain conscious even with the whip still secured around his neck. A terrible, determined shriek leaves him with another gout of firebreath, his throat red raw and singed. Intent on escaping, on defending the others, he wrenches his head from side to side and the motion is enough to tear the whip from the elf’s trembling, nerveless fingers. Hildegarde is already tearing his skull open and Nameless is too dizzy to focus solely on the man who downed him, instead thrashing in the general direction of the poachers foolish enough to try approaching. He manages to remove the whip in the process and fling it at one of the invaders, while yet more are advancing on Hildegarde from behind with weapons drawn, ready to take revenge for their fallen leader. One, a nasty little man that might be a dwarf or some related creature of a darker origin, attempts to bury his axehead in her side, specifically targeting the weaker points of the knight’s armour.
Somewhere...vaguely nearby, Kirien is still trying to deal with what he absorbed. The here and now has been misplaced, briefly.
“Left and down, through the trees just like the diagram, no, no, cut it like that and you miss the best part and-- oh, it’s so...noisy...” There are chemicals in Kirien’s lungs; horrible, caustic poisons. The air itself tastes unsafe to breathe and he is inhaling more of it every second, and it’s doing nothing to help soothe his headache. With the pounding in his temples too much to bear, the empath has collapsed to his knees once again and hunched over on himself, shivering in a cold sweat. He laughs, he cries, and he laughs again - a thin, pitiful sob of distress and a wish to fade, just for a while, into unconsciousness. Just a little silence, he pleads, to drown out the screaming whirlwind in his mind. It does not come, that welcoming veil of quiet. Desperate and begging, he rolls onto his back to stare with unseeing eyes at a white blank sky that acts as a screen, playing host to a cinematic reel of scenes and moments in another’s life, and flashes of the credits in the shape of poachers’ names. A thousand foreign memories are playing simultaneously and the sounds are maddening, each layered over one another in a discordant mess of tones and noise, each a snapshot of a time in the recent months...gods, what he would be suffering if he had taken more than a few month’s worth. He can’t bear the thought of it. Defenceless, Kirien has to push through this in any way he can, and that involves lying inert while trying to cope with the influx of stolen memory and feeling. Much of it is poisonous; it’s like a virus searing through him, a fire in his veins. For a long time (at least it seems like a long while, but he cannot tell) he barely moves at all, his chest shuddering with breaths that ache, and perhaps he does pass out for a time.
He’s waking up to ash and dust, for the trees overhead are burning and discarding their smouldering leaves and detritus across his body. Kirien blinks slowly, dazed, sits up and wipes his brow as the crackle of flames hisses overhead, unseen but felt, and warm. With blood on his hands and dirt on his knees, he pushes himself to his feet, finding the secure support of Nuial’Ashier. Although it makes his head hurt all the more, the empath lets his feet take him toward the noise, where Nameless is fighting as best he can and the poachers are beginning to realise that things are not going well at all - and certainly not in their favour. Kirien stumbles into the fray but as of yet is ignored, for the focus is elsewhere and not on the seemingly bewildered man covered in blood and ash, gold veins and scarlike markings shining through the muck. He stares, as if in a dream, at one body in particular. “Who... Valiren.” It’s unknown and familiar all at once. He whispers the dead elf’s name almost with horror, caught between his own emotions and that of the residual ones stolen - Kirien does not bat an eyelash at the man’s grotesque death, the way his corpse has been ripped open at the head, but the echoes of the one that once knew him are shocked. Another wave hits him, then. Valiren worked on those enchantments himself, learned the basics from the previous master - Balruuf was his name and they called him Leader, followed in his shadow right up until he met his match against an especially cunning dragon. Then, they took their revenge for him. Unwilling to lose his life in the same way, Valiren became more knowledgeable in the ways of dragons, learned their favoured schemes and plans, and even some riddles. He worked on this magic and on his skill with his enchanted whip, until he was ready to defend himself instantly against sneak attacks. Save yourself, save your men, skin quickly, and reap the benefits of scale and horn alike. He learned a lot of lessons in his time but in the end he suffered the same fate, torn apart by a dragon’s ferocity. “Valiren.” Kirien blinks again, more than once. His mind clears as the fog begins to evaporate... Roll credits.
Fire. Fire in the forest. Fire dares to sink its teeth in Frostmaw's trees. HER trees. In a flash, Satoshi is off the branch she's been perched upon, to suddenly appear in a snow's flurry in the center of the clearing. Around the magus swirls frost and ice, a biting whirlwind aura meant to temporarily shield her as she lifts a hand to the skies. From her palm is hurled an orb of blue light that blazes brightly as it arches through the air. It's a signal flare, the sign they've been waiting for, as is made clear by the sudden sound of a hunter's horn trumpeting loud and clear, the sound reverberating through the burning trees and originating from the clouds above. From these clouds burst forth the northern members of the Eyrie: frost and snow gryphons, ice wyverns, blue dragons, simurghs, all with their riders, and all led by the Scoutmaster Quinton Starhawk, astride his stag Peryton. Each member of the Wing carries a large sack draped over the sides and backs of their mounts, and as they soar over the clearing, the contents are released. Snow. It appears to be nothing more than snow, despite all the dramatics. One of the poachers even goes as far as to laugh at the spectacle as the Wing sweeps by overhead, but his laugh is never completed, for the instant the 'snow' descends to body-level, the spell is enacted. Satoshi knows each member of the poacher band carries an anti-magic ward, and so she's specifically designed this enchanted to work differently. It never touches their skin, but instead the flakes cease falling less than an inch away, as if they've encountered an invisible aura around each body. Once in place, the flakes begin spreading out, weaving themselves together and hardening into a fierce ice, a shell surrounding each poacher without touching them that's growth is fed by the arcane circle below ground. The instant the ice is done flashfreezing, the mana is cut off, making each shell elemental ice and thus not affected by anti-magic wards. And each shell is a prison locking their poacher within, the ice too sturdy to be broken by hand even if any of them had the room to move enough to swing.
Ice created by Frostmaw's Eidolon would bring no harm to her companions, naturally, but she cannot quite spare them from the breath-stealing cold that envelopes the area as a result of the flashfreezing. The cold is most sharply felt by those standing within the Circle's lines, at first the fuel for the snowflake spell and now switching into its secondary phase. As the cold deepens, the air grows heavy and difficult to draw into the lungs--or, rather, difficult to feed the flames. In quick time, the fires dwindle, its extinguishing aided by the Eyrie's wyverns and young dragons dousing them with Frost Breath. In the center of it all stands Satoshi, surveying her arcane trap and the imprisoned poachers unfortunate enough to still be standing, all stilled in mere seconds. Much has happened that she hadn't expected or planned for, yet still the results are as she intended. A smug grin creeps across the magus' features then, as Quinton's mount lands lightly beside her to drop off the elven ranger.
"We'll each need the amulets they wear, Starhawk, but aside from that, you and the riders may do with them as you please," Satoshi instructs. Quinton bows his head in response... and gives a violent jerk. A strangled gurgle escapes the scoutmaster as he slumps across his Peryton's back, blood spilling into the snow from the ice spike protruding from his throat. At the scent of blood, the stag rears and screams, tossing his great antlered head. White-rimmed eyes thick with fear and rage roll in the peryton's skull as he turns to face the source of his rider's demise.
Just beyond the clearing, and safely out of reach of the falling snowflakes, is the second arm of the poaching group. Where the first were men specializing in physical combat and bewitched weapons, this group is filled with men of magic, arcane, divine, and natural alike. Heading them is Celethron, a former Elementalist of Rynvale, gone AWOL at the same time as its former Governor, and now devoted to the hunting of winged beasts. It had been a spike of ice conjured by him that served to kill Quinton, and now he's prepared to do the same to the rest of the disrupters, alongside his crew: two battle pyro-mages, a hedge-witch, a combat artificer, and an exiled wind druid.
(Continued in Part Two)