RP:A Trap for Mice and Men, Part 2
Part of the The Most Dangerous Game Arc
Frostmaw Forest
(Continued from Part One)
Svilfon is flying through the air on the back of his goat when he hears the hunters horn call emanating from the clearing. The wizard lets a small smile form on his face, even as he races across the sky to catch up to his Eyrie brethren. Soaring with them in formation, he watches eagerly as they drop their payloads; the snow queen's favourite weapon. Once again his gaps and fangs are flashed as he grins; he was prepared to stop the fires before they ravished more of the sturdy trees, but his magic isn't needed... he never truly believed it would be. With Satoshi as prepared as she was, he was confident in her ability to silence the roar of the burning wood. She had many plans, his role is to react to any unforseen changes to ensure as little goes wrong as possible... or if it does goes wrong, it goes wrong in the right way! But even as this thought filters through his mind, he watches Starhawk be slain by Celethron arcane icicle. In his rage, the wizard speaks a strange series of words to his goat, before the animal shifts its wings and plummets out of the sky. When close, Svilfon leaps from the beast's back, rolls across the snow, before coming to his feet. He speaks quick words to Satoshi, his breath billowing in the frigid air – heated not by the warmth of life, but instead the innate magic of the man. “Lady icicle.. I am sorry for your loss, but we have not time yet to grieve.” He offers her a brief look, before lifting his arm and pointing towards the coming poachers. “Two are of fire, I can sense it... but if I fight them myself, the poor trees will suffer more. I will not harm Frostmaw.” Even as he speaks, he hears a cry above them. The lady druidess is directing her potent magic at some of the flying Eyrie riders, sending more than one hurling out of the sky. “I'll take her...” There is more said in the last look he gives the snow queen than the words which are spoken, before Svil begins to slide sideways across the snow, keeping his gaze upon the woman.
Be it arcane sense or merely the itch which comes when a look is so intense it could burn through steel, the woman lowers her gaze and locks it upon Svilfon. She reads his intent and smirks, before whispering to her companions, “I'll blow this idiot off the mountain, then return. Watch the skyriders...” That said, she mirrors Svilfon's movements until she is partly away from the rest of them. The air-inclined druidess lifts both her hands and twists them before her body as flowing words are heard. The wizard's robes begin to push against his frame as the winds violently pick up, but already he is casting a counter-spell. The harshly blowing wind is beyond his power to stop, so instead he mutters the words to a spell he's not cast in a long time: stoneskin. The Sublime Master taught it to him, but the wizard never really liked the restrictions to movement which accompany it, or the horrifying feeling of being stuck in place – even briefly. But this time, he doesn't care... he allows the sensations to flow across his skin, locking him in place until even his robes stop billowing. He stands there for a long time, solidifying as much as he can, even as shards of ice and snow whip up around him, lurching at anyone close and tearing through his skin while it is still vulnerable. Were he not in the midst of his spell, surely her words would have been made true and he'd be long ago blown from the mountains. But he is ready, and with the last of his possible movement, lowers his wand behind him and emits a simple fireball. It doesn't explode in a hugely violent fashion, the frozen and blowing air too much of a restriction, but its force is enough to send the wizard hurling forward. Locked in place as a self-made projectile, the vampire surges through the magic she casts, his sharply pointed hat cutting through the air easily, until he impales himself upon the woman. She is speared through the chest by his hat, her back erupting into a vicious sanguine flower, before the wizard and his newest head-wear soar out of the area. It would take a while for him to counter the effects of the archaic stone-skin, so for now his allies would have to deal with the rest of the poachers themselves... but he is happy that he managed to at least stop too many of the Eyrie riders from being blown out of the sky, even if they are at the mercy of the other powerful poachers while their formations have been shattered by the former wind-druid...
Hildegarde was never often viewed as a particularly graceful creature, what with her heavy armour to weigh her down. But, as she explained to Kenway, battle is much like a dance; an expressive movement that is performed in many different ways, some with swords, some with bows and some with a halberd. Her dance was the one with the halberd, a weapon that was not commonly used, rarer still amongst women, or so she had been told. She kept a hold of the mutilated poacher, hearing the little chuckle of the dwarf as he approached her with his axe, ready to End her and perhaps steal her scales, too. Hilde twisted around with the corpse held close against her, her legs pressed against his as she thrust the body forward to intercept the axehead and kicked out her leg to force his out, kicking the dwarf in the face with his dead comrade. She watched him stumble before tossing the corpse against him and then launching herself at him, body weight far heavier than his as she compressed the air out of him. "Poacher," she hissed darkly, "Do you think me so lowly that I will fall to *you*?" She raised her fist and curled it tightly, "I hope you suffer," she said in all seriousness, as she brought her fist down against his face. But she did not introduce her fist to his face just once, she did it repeatedly until it was hard to even say that the mush she was punching was once a face. With a gasp of air, she staggered off the two corpses and looked confused; looking to Whim with partial disgust and confusion. She was certain she had heard or felt something, something said in the ancient language of her kin and ancestors. But perhaps it was the battle lust that made her think such. Although she had been caught up in the blood lust of battle, she turned now and searched quickly for Kirien. He was her liege and she his sworn sword, even in a time such as this, she would not abandon her solemn duty to him. She quickly searched for him, seeking only to identify him and make sure he was uninjured. Once found, she seemed satisfied and relieved - but she was certain he could handle himself and had very little reason to need her at this moment in time. Poachers, however, were freezing solid in those shells of ice all around her, causing her to smile some in wonderment. Only then to shake her head and look to Whim, aware now that this thing was not just a weapon to be used against her foes, although now would be a most inopportune time to be rid of it. Her eyes, however, caught sight of Quinton as he was felled by the spike of ice, eyes now searching for the caster. There he stood with a group of other poachers, all of them seething in their cruel magics. She moved over to Satoshi as quickly as she could, only to just hear Svilfon mention how unwise it would be to use fire against fire. "Then let us use frost," she said, looking to them with a face that said she was entirely serious. Fire was a dangerous thing to a frost dragon, she knew it first hand at the hands of the wizard, so she felt as if that was enough training for her to combat the flames. "Do you have something in mind or do you think brute strength might work?" she said, flicking Whim upwards and to the left to deflect another spike of ice as if it were nothing, when inside she was secretly very proud of that nonchalant deflect.
Slowly, Kirien drags his gaze up from the sagging corpse of Valiren to meet Hildegarde’s eyes. He looks dazed, standing open and unguarded, slouching slightly on one side, and for a second it’s almost as if he stares right through her. Then, a hand raises and he waves to the Knight, lips twitching into a smile that is both faint and...faintly bloody, too. Rather than being invigorated by the recent meal as he should be, the empath just seems dizzy. Tottering into the clearing proper, he ducks beneath the arc of an oncoming arrow, flinging an arm out in an almost haphazard manner...but as the archer is abruptly swallowed by the rock under his feet and crushed without mercy, it can be assumed there was more to that gesture than his simply swatting at ghosts. It’s Nameless that Kirien approaches, weaving around on unsteady legs as the wyvern thrashes and roars, great rivers of blood flowing from his parted jaws. His throat is raw and blistering from the fire elixirs, causing him immense pain that prompts him to spit furiously at Kirien, driven and blinded by anger and agony. A thick globule of blood sears his chest - wyverns, only distant relations to dragonkin, do not possess the exact same poisons in their blood that would act as an acid when coming into contact with those touched by vampirism, but there is still a degree of burning involved for the unlucky vampire who takes a bucket of wyvern blood to the face. Kirien pays this no mind, diving to catch Nameless when he swings his head, arms wrapping tightly around him as he presses his bare chest to the wyvern’s snout in the semblance of an embrace. Heedless to the chaos around them, they focus only on each other. “Hush,” he whispers to his distressed friend, and for both their sakes he hangs on tight. “I need something to clear my head, and you can clear your own by giving me your pain. Also, long time no see, loser.” Nameless huffs a warm breath at the mage, one that might have contained annoyance, or concern, or even a hint of, “And whose fault is that?” But he does share the sensation with him all the same and for a few short moments, they are both wracked with a pain so deep and piercing that it almost renders them unconscious.
When Kirien pulls back, stumbling upright, he is gasping for air and his temples are aching. His thoughts, however, are thankfully far less muddled as the sharp knife of pain cuts through them, pushing all but the most important aside. “Perfect-- well, not quite, because this hurts. I’ve had better ideas, but this’ll do. How do you feel?” He blinks blind eyes at Nameless, who is shaking his head from side to side and apparently manages an unspoken response, because Kirien makes a thoughtful noise. “Ah, I suppose so. At least there was no backlash? It’s a bitch, I tell you. Anyway, you’ll be good now, right? We’re still in the middle of a fight, you know, and it looks like they brought backup too. Plenty of targets to siphon this off into, at least...” That said, and with a final nod to Nameless, who snorts, the empath hops off across the snow. He’s moving with his usual celerity and grace once more, unhindered by the pressing wave of foreign memory. Mid-run, his legs break and transform with a sound similar to the shattering of a sword’s blade, adamantite limbs thinning from the knees downward into jagged, tapering points - another pointed hop and he is skimming the snow effortlessly, though it seems this easier movement comes with its own set of disadvantages. He crashes into Hildegarde with a muted, “Umph,” just as she finishes speaking to Satoshi. “Sorry-- there’s like three feet of snow between me and hard ground so I’m not seeing...that...well...” His head tilts, and he swerves around behind her before pushing on her back, utilising the Silver’s solid presence to regain his balance. A cough, vaguely apologetic. He glances across the field to the far-off tree line and the figures amassing beneath them. “So, who gets who? I’ve a mind to break the ice with that guy.” Judging by his terrible pun, he means Celethron.
No sideways glance is needed to tell Satoshi that Hildegarde and Kirien are at her side. The terramancer's remark brings the crack of a smile to the kit's face, although her words are in answer to the knight's question, "Depends, Mithril, on whether you've played cudgel-ball before~." While Satoshi herself never played the game involving a bat or club and a ball, she's seen enough children play it over time to birth a wild idea now--inspiration having come from the wizard's assault on the wind druid. The dragon's strength would be pivotal to it, however, as would the members of the Eyrie in the skies above, wheeling around and approaching for a pass any second now.
The dragon had to still the desire to laugh when Kirien made his little remark, knowing full well this wasn't an appropriate time to laugh and be merry. But at the question posed by the Kit, she smiled broadly, "M'lady, I grew up in Xailous..." she said, "of course I've played it." How did people think she was so good at swinging a halberd?
As the Eyrie's wing members bank, Satoshi grins. There is nothing merry or pleasant in the expression, it is one born of malice, a vicious glee at the promise of death and blood to come. ...All right, so there's a -little- joy in there, for what Satoshi is about to do. With a flourish and hop, Hildegarde will find the kit poised with vulpine grace upon the flat of her halberd and facing the band of mages before them, even as she says in cavalier tones, "Swing like you mean it, Mithril~!"
The knight was wary that her liege was leaning against her, so she pressed an arm out behind her to gently push him back as she took a small step forward; Satoshi perched precariously on the flat of Whim. She grinned at the Queen, "M'lady!" she offered, to acknowledge the command before twisting her body around; halberd swinging straight with her, dipping some with only a third left of her turn, before swinging up with a mighty cry of effort from the Silver. She had swung like she meant it, feeling the burn in her arms.
In the same instant, the Eyrie's flyers pass over the enemy mages, hailing them with arrows, javelins, roars, and screeches. The pass does little in the way of damage, with the casters all having wards up against simple physical assaults--although one of the pyromancers takes an arrow before she bring her spell to fruition. As the female mage crumples with a scream, the gryphons and wyverns soar past, angered that they've slain only one of the numbers and done no further harm to the enemy. And yet, the passing Eyrie are vital to Satoshi's intentions, that split second her foes' eyes are turned to the sky being used by herself and Hildegarde to complete the kit-apult. Like a fluffy bat out of hell, the magus careens toward the remaining pyromancer, his gaze widening in surprise and confusion at the sight: for it's not the frail-seeming Lady of Frostmaw he sees coming at him, but rather the blurred outline of her shape rapidly being overtaken by a larger one. In the sparse seconds it takes Satoshi to travel from Hildegarde to pyromancer, her form has shifted into that of the larger, and far more solid, fox-beast, fur encased in a protective layer of ice.
Fangs, fur, claws, and ice close the gap at lethal speeds--or, they would have been lethal, if the fire mage hadn't been shrouded in his wards. Nonetheless, Hildegarde's strength is enough to have delivered this furry projectile with considerable potency, frost meeting flame and seeming to hang for a single, agonising second before the opposing elements give in. The wards are strong enough to stop Satoshi, yet her ice and speed are enough to obliterate the wards. Or, more accurately, detonate them. As the ice cracks through the barrier, the fiery weaves that created it erupt in response, a torrent of flames leaping into the sky as a concussive blast of heat and air billows out from where mage and magus met. The force of the blast sends the pyromancer's nearby companion's flying in every direction, their protective spells sparing them the worst of the damage.
When the smoke, quite literally, clears, all that remains is a crater, the earth blackened and snow melted. A spattering trail of bloody droplets extends from the center and extends into the thickening trees beyond, showing that at least one of the two at the explosion's center has been launched in that direction...
Celethorn is the first to recover from being hurled aside, the dwarven artificer second, with the hedge-witch not far behind once she's check and ensured the safety of her potions. The elementalist wears a mask of rage at having three of his numbers already cut down, the expression twisting a normally beautiful face into a monster's. "You!" he snarls to the dwarf without even looking, "Go after that wizard! Destroy him or don't bother returning!" No reply comes, the artificer being a dwarf of few words, and in seconds he's gone. Celethorn doesn't spare him a second thought, instead fixing his gaze on Kirien even as the hedge-witch steps up beside him to eye Hildegarde. A cruel smirk twists itself across the Rynvalian's face. This was going to be fun.
Into the trees the dwarf runs, faster than any of his kind should be capable of, with thanks going to the runestones surgically embedded into his feet, bearing sigils of Agility. The dwarf is a walking piece of jewelry with how many gems have been buried into his flesh, each one etched, painted, filled, and marked with a staggering array of symbols, and each one honed for combat. Somewhere ahead, there is a wizard and a dead druid, and the dwarf intends to find them and greet Svilfon with all the force and speed of a cannonball, if cannonballs had legs and all the density of a dwarven warrior.
The wizard is remembering why he hates this certain spell. It's bloody painful trying to strip the enchantment from his skin, and having a bleeding druid on your hat certainly doesn't help matters. Nevertheless, Svilfon's concentration is intense; he blots out the sounds of battle coming from behind him and focuses on removing the enchantment. Slowly it melts from his flesh, and with a grunt he pulls his head back from the woman and eyes her... the blood, so fresh, the wizard, beginning to be tired from the fighting... he would have a little snack upon her corpse before rejoining the battle, confident his allies this day would not fall to their enemies. So again his head goes into that hole in her chest, and he begins to rather messily eat; his focus so much on the sweet scarlet snack that he doesn't notice until it's too late the dwarf charging at him with all the gusto of.. well.. a charging dwarf. A simple, “By the sparkling balls of Sven...” comes from Svil, before he's struck with horrific force. He flies back from his meal, stopping only when his body cracks viciously into a tree. He slides down from the wood slowly, before landing in a heap at its base. The dwarf, not wasting much time, prepares to charge again, stopped only when the wizard speaks in groaning tones, “I've... seen... better... beards... on elfs... you pixie lookin' jewel wearin' midget.” This is all it takes for a scream to come from the dwarf, and once again he erupts forward, right at the vampire.
Svilfon, more ready this time, prepares himself quickly, and as the dwarf meets him, the wizard teleports them both. The two, vampire and vulturous poacher, appear again high above Frostmaw, surrounded in a sphere of burning fires. The dwarf's enchantments are enough that he's not burned by them, and so they hurl down from the skies like a meteor, flying through the air with horrendous speed. Down and down... faster and faster... until the two land with brutal force into the frozen lake Frysta . They crash through the ice, sending a whoosh of steam coming from the crater like opening, startling a few of the fishemen from their reverie. Beneath the surface the vampire holds onto the dwarf, taking a vicious beating as he does. His face is struck time and time again, blood pouring from wounds and bruises, until, beneath the swishing waters, Svilfon spies what he hoped he would. One of those Black Sun Koi swimming over to see what has come into its formidable fortress. The wizard frantically kicks his feet, swinging the dwarf into the fish's path. Jaws open and there's a crunching sound as hobbit sized fish eats dwarven sized head. Svilfon drops the remains of the creature – a vertible treasure of gems beneath the surface, before kicking out. He barely has the strength to crest the surface, coming up where one of the fisherman lowers his rod. He draws in unneeded breath, before pulling himself out, shaking himself off, and beginning to run back to where the battle takes place. He doesn't immediately have the energy to teleport again, but it wouldn't take him too long to return... leaving in his wake a few fishermen, who after a brief look at each other, shrug and return to their fishing...
The Hedge-witch, known only as Lydia, eyes the dragon with a dark look in her emerald eyes. She sees not just what exists in this world, she knows the woman is a dragon. Gnarled hands enter her robes, pulling forth two vials filled with green and gold-hued liquid. She swirls one while moving away from her companion. Acting quickly, she hurls the first vial at the feet of the dragon, causing it to explode in a cloud of caustic smoke. The second she opens and pours onto the ground beneath herself while muttering some strange words. The liquids, made from a plethora of rare and exotic herbs and spices, link together, and the hedgewitch, at last finishing her little chant, pushes her hands forward. Through the snow the liquid at her feet travels, before it would attempt to lift up like a vine and wrap around Hildegarde's feet, holding her in place long enough for the caustic cloud to burn through her armour and begin to devour her flesh beneath like a ravenous beast; the concoction made especially for dragons, to break through their formidable armours and leave them open to any form of attack...
Hildegarde had smiled when her liege pressed against her back for support, glad to know that he was relatively okay out here in the battlefield. She had only pushed him back a little to propel the Queen off with her halberd, but she returned to his side to watch the progress of the Queen. She said quietly to Kirien, "I never thought I'd throw a Queen from my halberd before," before her eyes widened at the sight of the explosion. The Silver's muscular arm would attempt to wind around Kirien as her body followed with it fluidly, pressed against him with her back to the explosion. She was much taller than him, so she made quite the good shield! “Satoshi,” she murmured, worriedly. Yet there was no time to go and check for the Queen, the battle was not yet over.
When the field cleared, she offered a gentle apology to her liege, before turning to face the two would think to challenge her and Kirien. Her instinct and her oath told her to step in front of Kirien, but she did not wish to upset him or perhaps dishonour him. Instead, she covered only half of his body with her massive frame, eyeing the hedge-witch with quiet resolve. "M'lord," she said without removing her gaze, "I believe I will kill that woman."
She wasn't entirely sure how to approach her from such a distance, apart from running, without leaving her liege behind. She was his sword and his shield before death and she intended to keep to those vows for as long as she was able or in his service. But the vial was tossed and cracked at her feet, sending up that cloud of caustic smoke. Her time fighting the wizard had taught her to always be suspicious of anything a magical caster sent her way! "Kirien!" she said, her voice filled with a genuine worry; all trace of pride and cockiness evaporated, as she reached for his waist and dug her fingers into the shirt wrapped around him. She hoisted him up and tossed him out of the immediate reach of the caustic smoke, which gave those vines the time to coil over her feet and keep a tight hold upon her. She levelled her gaze with the hedge-witch for a brief moment before raising her head up and closing her eyes, feeling the heat prickle at her face and nip at her skin. It was already chewing through her armour and delicate flesh, enough to shed a pained tear from her stormy eyes. She inhaled deeply; face contorting into a pained cringe as her throat burned, before apparently screaming at the air above her. The scream served a dual purpose: to show her pain and to spread that dense blast of freezing wind, the first instance her frost breath had ever been like a freezing wind, capable of pushing things back if it held enough force! Her jaw burned along with her cheek, skin turning red before blistering and peeling, before corroding and curling horrendously upon itself. It was likely the encounter would scar her permanently, but healers can do wonders for those so concerned with their vanity.
The knight tried to keep her legs steady as she awkwardly began to squat, fingers curling around the vine on one foot before yanking upwards to tear it off. If she could tear a skull clean off, she was convinced she could break vines, even if it left her gloves and bitten fingers worse off. She left the other pair of vines, taking a step forward with a loud snarl of rage and determination, a call that simply said “You’re dead”. Lydia was clearly caught off guard by the movement of the dragon, so her gnarled fingers began searching her robes for more dastardly potions, as she chanted more arcane words. But the dragon had lost patient, had lost the desire to keep up this dance with the witch. She hefted Whim in her hands and, for once, commanded its shape to change to that of something more spear like. She eyed the witch before weighing the weapon in her hand again, raising it up and throwing it with another battle cry. Whim met the witch with a sort of wet, squishy noise as it pressed into her chest and impaled in the ground behind her, keeping her at an awkward angle as she died and bled all over the earth and shaft of the weapon. Hilde drew Oathkeeper and twirled it readily in her hand, slicing the remaining vine from her foot and eyeing Kirien to check if he was alive.
(Satoshi and Svilfon continue here)
When Hildegarde turned to look at Kirien, she noticed her liege was gone. “Kirien?” she called, her voice full of worry and fear for her liege, as their enemies were all around them and she was but one knight. She only caught sight of him once he had caught the ice mage who was certainly a threat, the two struggling before the earth began to sink around them. “Kirien!” she cried, running forward in some vain effort to reach her liege lord and perhaps save him from whatever danger she could. But there were more poachers, moving towards Kirien and the ice mage. She twirled Oathkeeper in her hand, watching as her liege sank deeper into the earth and began to pull in the poachers who were foolish enough to close in on him. Hilde was terrified: she didn’t know if he would be okay. She knew the earth could bend to his will, but would he still be safe? She felt as though she was failing in her sacred duty as she watched Kirien sink into the earth and soon out of sight, but she was certain he had said something as he went. But what that was she didn’t know. The knight fell to her knees before the disturbed earth, sword dropped as bloodied fingers dug into the earth and tried to pull clumps of it up, “Kirien, please!” she begged, before pounding an angry fist on the earth and slumping forward. “Live, damn you, live…” he had to, she knew it. She needed him to live.
The Silver knelt there for a few moments, gasping and staring at the earth as if she were confounded by it and the disappearance of her liege. “Get up, Hildegarde, get up,” she told herself, forcing herself to her feet and moving to Lydia’s slumped corpse. Fingers clasped around Whim and pulled it from her with a grisly squelch, looking at her with sad eyes for a moment and whispering, “I’m sorry,” before moving off in the direction of Svilfon and Satoshi. If she could not – to her shame – make sure Kirien was alive, she would damn well make sure those two would receive her protection.
She wandered off in their direction, Whim sinking into the snow with each step as Oathkeeper was sheathed and hung from her hip. It wasn’t long before she saw them, unable to hide that smile that crept onto her face. Even in the face of battle, the sight of friends – alive and relatively well – was enough to bring a smile to her face and wash some relief over her, as she raised Whim up in a silent greeting to them both; a signal that she was alive and well, even if she couldn’t just yet explain the absence of Kirien to them. But alas, happiness is short lived in war, as Hilde’s happiness is killed by the feeling of a knife slicing through her armour; tangling in her chainmail and scraping at her skin. The knife was followed with a kick to her back, sending her sprawling. It was not something she had anticipated at all, as she sprawled forward and gasped into the snow as her mind demanded that she get up and fight.
“How the mighty have fallen,” the voice said, sending chills down the spine of Hildegarde. The Silver drew herself up with the help of her halberd, turning to face her attacker, “Calhoun?” she asked, bewildered.
“Your eyes do not betray you, sister,” he replied, twisting the bloodied hunting knife in his hand, as the knight stood there in shock. Her own brother was one of the poachers.
(Continued in Brother's Keeper)