RP:And The Rock Cried Out, "No Hiding Place"

From HollowWiki

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.


Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc


Summary: Captain Brand leads a team to the dwarven kingdom of Craughmoyle on the hunt for an unlikely brigand who may have subtle ties to a certain burgeoning new arc.

Chronology Notice: Like Understanding is a Three-Edged Sword, this quest occurs some time prior to the events of And All My Dreams, Torn Asunder despite being uploaded afterward. As such, the principle characters of this story are still naive to the threat of Kahran.

This Quest Is Based On The Following Warrior's Guild Mission Orders:

Brand,

Our friends in Craughmoyle have become rather upset over a cheating pugilist. They suspect that he is using some kind of magic or something in order to cheat and overcome all opponents. They say he has skin as hard as stone and moves as quick as a wisp. It’s down to you to put a stop to this cheat.

Signed, Hildegarde


Least Favorite Son

Lionel | An autumnal wind blows rich red-and-orange leaves down from the mountains, their trees all but bare in the face of such gusts. Winter may be months away, but at such heights there isn’t much difference between it and summer’s end. Snow falls softly upon the mountains, blanketing the earth in white. It blankets the dwarven outposts, too, obscuring their whereabouts from trespassing eyes. The dwarves have no qualms with this arrangement; they don’t need keen eyesight to know the whereabouts of their stalwart military dens. The dwarves don’t march across icy mountaintops from outpost to outpost; the dwarves don’t spend much time on icy mountaintops at all. The dwarves of Craughmoyle have crafted great stone lifts upon rope-stretched pulleys, a marvel of engineering still enigmatic to all the other Lithrydelian lands, and they dispatch their troops to the surface by way of these lifts. They rise, and the earth grows cooler with their rising, until it’s too frigid by far for any good heat-loving dwarf, but the troops do not complain. The soldiers and sentries of the dark and storied subterranean Craughmoyle all do their duty, for honor and for brotherly and sisterly love, for the dwarves remember a time not so terribly long ago that all the surface was besieged -- and all the roads beneath it. For these battle-born and ever-ready souls, any chill of winter’s portent is but a test of worthiness on the way to war.


Lionel | Grahf D’Argo is not in Craughmoyle’s army. Grahf D’Argo washed out of it and brought shame to Clan D’Argo. His own father, Kahn D’Argo, died in a mining incident three years past but rumors persist that his son arranged it himself, or worse by dwarven custom, that Kahn took his life in shame. Yet those were different days, and Clan D’Argo’s fortunes have reversed in such splendorous fashion these past few months that all but the bitterest of its foes have been forced to admit it has to be doing something right. Grahf D’Argo may have left the military, but -- honorless though he may be -- he’s done such a fine job cleaning out his opponents’ coffers in the ring of the Endless Thirst, an arena of warriors who bludgeon and maim their fellow dwarves into half-alive pulp for the glory of the gods. Grahf has brought shame, but he has also brought entertainment. Craughmoyle’s technological feats still amaze, but its profits have taken several rough downward turns in recent times, and entertainment has grown more pivotal than ever. And so there Grahf D’Argo reigns today, ever the pug-faced pugilist, ugly but fierce and chiseled like a nearby silver statue of some deity or other. He has beaten Ru’Kar’s nose into his face, smashed poor Helga Harod-Daughter’s teeth into her throat, and a big crowd filled with coins for betting has heard a certain rumor that his next opponent’s a bear. “We can bear-ly wait,” an announcer cries out, ushering groans from all those present.


Brand || How was it that Onyx always got drawn into these things? One would think the point of a first mate would be to operate as captain in the event of Brand’s absence, which would mean -actually staying on the ship- whenever the bosh’tet got a bee in his bonnet to bound off boldly… elsewhere. And now to drag the woman along as well? What part of ‘keepin’ her safe’ involves directly exposing her to danger? Alas, but no amount of prodding the captain would get him to reconsider. If he had to go all the way to Craughmoyle, he would damn well drag everyone else along, too.


Brand wasn’t entirely without a plan. It was but one dwarf, and not one he’d ever heard of before, so how tough could the mark possibly be? Well, Brand intended to find out, and if that required bringing along half the damn ship… the more the merrier, right? He and Onyx and Khitti and Lionel and several dwarves off the Tranquility’s crew stood in the dark, dank tunnel leading into the arena, ready to see for themselves just what this D’Argo was capable of. He nudged Onyx -- no need for a more elaborate signal down here. This first part was all on them.


Brand || The announcer called, the portcullis groaned open… and sure enough, out emerged a great bear, with mottled grey amongst its brown fur and armor the finest of dwarven smiths would be happy to claim. It plodded forward and around, growling low, wary eyes locked on its foe. “Get a look at any sigils or the like,” said Brand from the safety of the tunnel, his eyes wrapped within a ridiculous looking contraption of glass and metal. The dwarves, too, were fitted with similar goggles. “Not too close now. We want as much time as possible to scope out what we’re up against before the gig is up.” Outside, the bear kept its distance, circling, waiting.


Khitti :: It’s okay. Khitti has her bow. Things’ll be perfectly fine… right? One dwarf was definitely no problem, but the redhead had other things she was worried about. See, this Khitti, the Khitti with amnesia, really wasn’t much different from the old one, even if Brand and the others didn’t always see things that way. If there’s one thing Pre-amnesia Khitti’d been afraid of, it was bears. (Okay, there was dragons, and giant crab-men and their rattling paddles, and even spiders for awhile there too, but shh.) It wasn’t even your normal every day bear; this bear had armor. Who gives armor to bears? Do they -really- need that? She had some of those crazy goggles too, but it’s not like she’d be of much help just yet. Poor Khitti was full of fright. Who the hell willingly fights bears?! Who?! Someone was going to get mauled today. Someone. Maybe even her. Ugh. She stuck close to Brand, clinging to his shirt a little as if to say ‘please don’t let the bear eat me’.


The Bear and the Dwarfson Fair

Lionel| Grahf D’Argo willingly fights bears like Sheila for breakfast. The crowd goes wild as he flexes his big dwarven biceps, then pounds his chainmail-covered chest with enough force so that the metallic clang can be heard even at these volumes. Numerous diehard fans hold out clubs, axes, and maces for his selection, and a few of them hold out combat-useless articles of clothing, too, but Grahf D’Argo ignores them all. “There is no life worth living that hasn’t wrestled a bear into submission,” D’Argo shouts, and the packed-tight denizens of the Endless Thirst get even louder. “I can’t hear a thing over all this stupid,” Lionel complains, tapping his goggles to get a better look at the sigils through the illusory bear’s eyes as per Onyx’s strange spell. He sees D’Argo in all his splendor, shining less like a pugilist and more like a paladin in that gaudy getup. The crest of Clan D’Argo, a hammer with a streak of lightning through the handle, is there upon the shoulder plates and leg pieces. On his abdomen, however, is the mark of something odd: a twisted tree that wraps around itself like a cord, the symbol used between the self-imposed Frost Giant exiles to which Mulgrew, the woman who tried to cure Rorin, resides. Lionel blinks, squinting to reconfirm his findings.


Lionel| Before he can speak up, however, Sundance lists the things he’s found on the armor of the men and women counting coppers in Sheila’s favor. “See’s me the shield of Clan Vorz; big military types, them. See’s me the alehorn of Clan Ironbeard; freer folk, them, but with ties to Clan Vorz. An’ see’s me the Hairfoot Clan; y’might not believe this, but that right there’s a hairy foot painted to that lady’s helmet. Don’t much care for coming down here, but from what I’ve learned when I did, they’ve all got reason to want ol’ Grahfy-boy dead.” He laughs heartily and shrugs. “Good times.” Grahf D’Argo preempts the fake bear with a roar, and then, as the fake bear roars back, the crowd cheers in awe as the pugilist’s skin hardens and his eyes gleam. He looks half a stone golem now and yet he moves with alacrity and grace unbecoming his thickness. Few here seem surprised by D’Argo’s curious abilities; they’ve seen it all before, and the majority are seeing it again with glee. The rest, however, are seeing it with scorn. D’Argo reaches out with his arms in front of the bear’s broad shoulders and aims to twist it down to the cold hard ground with all his might. No dwarf’s might should be so great; not even a dwarf should be able to throw a bear down in a vice grip like this. And yet…


Brand || Fear not, no actual bears were harmed in the making of this illusion. One wouldn’t know it by looking at the ursine imposter, however; it takes a nasty tumble and roars in all too realistic pain. Air whistles between Onyx’s teeth as they spout off a string of curses fit to rival Brand’s; they are clinging to the bars of the gate and looking on with posture rigid as the bear struggles in the dwarf’s grip. Its maw is foaming with slobber and its eyes are wild, rendering the enchanted goggles useless for a moment as the thing whips its head around from its upturned position.


Brand throws his goggles off of his head and closes the gap between himself and his first mate in two paces. His hand would seek to pull Onyx away from the portcullis, but the child holds strong. “You lied to me,” Brand says, and Onyx does not answer. Outside, the bear finds what it is looking for. The foaming maw chomps as hard as it can into D’Argo’s foot, holds on for as long as it can, and when it can hold no longer… it disappears in a cloud of smoke thick and acrid as a volcano’s belch. The smoke spreads across the arena as Onyx collapses back on Brand’s waiting arm. “I did not,” responds the illusionist, breathy as any living thing would be in defeat. Their dark irises are lined in red.


Khitti listened to Sundance as he spouted off his findings, her line of sight fixed on the bear-that-was-not-actually-there. The bear soon went poof and the redhead sighed with relief. Right, yes. It wasn’t real. Somehow she managed to forget this amongst all of that fear. Ugh, thank you. She looked down at her bow, then at Onyx. They certainly didn’t look like they’d be able to do much right now, what with all that magic they just used up, and running in didn’t seem to be the best idea just yet. All of those other dwarves wanted to kill this one, right? Well, maybe they’d deal with him -for- the party, in a way, if they managed to freeze him in place and put him at a serious disadvantage. It was just an idea, and probably wouldn’t work, but... “Brand. Take Onyx and move.” She pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it into place, and pulled the string back slowly, giving him time to move. Even if he didn’t, she’d reposition herself enough to shoot around the both of them and through the bars, aiming at that foot the not-bear had targeted. Was there really time to talk about a plan B? It really didn’t feel like it to Khitti, and so she shot that arrow… and missed. It wasn’t by much, the projectile still exploding into ice on contact as it hit the ground, but it likely wouldn’t be enough to root D’Argo’s foot in place. Maybe she’d get lucky and he’d not notice where the arrow came from?


Lionel winces at the bear’s gruesome chomp, but nothing happens on D’Argo’s side to suggest real pain. The dwarf laughs coldly instead and kicks it in the head to the joyful remarks of his many fans. When D’Argo’s foot goes through rapidly evaporating smoke, however, his beady eyes light up with confusion and anger and an audible gasp fills the Endless Thirst from the closest and richest patrons all the way to the far end of the tunnel. “Is this some trick?” Lord Ulster Ironbeard barks from nearby. D’Argo fidgets as his stone-like skin reverts to its normal pale complexion and he ruffles his mustache with his fingertip. “Well?” Lady Ernhar Hairfoot follows up. The crowd grows quiet as it awaits the pugilist’s reply. “No trick,” D’Argo breathes, nodding along with himself to supplement his lie. “This is no trick, for I, Grahf of Clan D’Argo, can bash a bear so easily that with one stray grip I can will it into ashes! Why, she never stood a chance!” He laughs again, and the crowd laughs with him. All across the hall, and across Craughmoyle at-large, too, D’Argo’s antics have become as legendary as any proud battle commander’s. Ironbeard and Hairfoot scowl but retreat into the din, fixing one-another with a knowing look as dwarves numbering two hundred or more chant D’Argo’s name with a passion.


Lionel rolls his azure eyes and looks back in search of Brand, but the captain has gone and started harsh words with Onyx. Lionel watches the crowd all but overwhelm D’Argo’s position with cries of glory everlasting and quickly ponders their next move. “We can’t get close to him like this. Let’s…” Khitti’s arrow is fired; she’s taken what little clearing remains. Credit where credit is due: it was a clearing Lionel himself didn’t quite see. Some part of her, of ‘Red’, is every bit the archer she was before. “...shoot at him anyway,” Lionel corrects the rest of his sentence.


Lionel | Grahf D’Argo sees the arrow and seethes. “What foolishness is this, that tugs at the heartstrings of the Great Grahf D’Argo’s own life? Come out and face me, then, you mad dogs!” His pug-like face bristles with a venomous glare as he scans his surroundings, but his eyes are fearful despite his boasts. His fans cover him more tightly, shielding his body like servants without wills of their own. D’Argo whispers to his aide, the white-bearded Ang, “get me out of here.” Ang coughs loudly and announces: “We’ll make haste for the tavern! Forget the machinations of our enemies’ assassins, friends, and drink with your champion!” And so the crowd pushes and pulls its way down the tunnel, D’Argo somewhere at its center, and the tavern door swings open and a host of dwarves with an ever-thirst do enter.


Cult of Lacking Personality

Brand is the one to curse now as he searches for an opening that is not available to them. There are too many others around D’Argo, whose abilities they haven’t even fully assessed. He looks around at Lionel and the entirety of the crew. And it must be noted he’s trying real hard not to scowl at Khitti for alerting the dwarf to the presence of people who’d like to kill him. He’s mostly failing. “Right, then. Any other bright frakkin’ ideas? Anyone get any info of use from his armor, some weakness we could exploit? Clearly we’re not gonna get anywhere ignoring command n’ shootin’ from the hip.” Yep, there’s the scowl in its entirety. Whose idea was it to bring amnesia-Khitti along, anyway? (Oh, right. It was his.)


Khitti’s frown made itself known almost immediately after Brand voiced his disdain for her decision. It had seemed like the right idea at the time, and yet… now she too was beginning to wonder at her place here. There was a furrowing of crimson brows as she peered down at her bow and backed away from Brand and the others, then looked towards the direction they’d come from. Why had he even bothered giving the bow back to her? What was the point if she wasn’t going to use it when there seemed to be no other option? Why the hell was she even still in this guild? She was no fighter, not like she used to be--whatever the hell that meant. In pre-amnesia-Khitti fashion, there was a particular feeling of uselessness creeping up on her and she did her best to fight it off as the others debated on what to do now that she’d frakked everything up. Maybe she should go? She could certainly hide in one of the shops nearby so she wouldn’t get in the way anymore.


Lionel balls his left hand into a fist. For the space of a breath he seems on the point of an outburst, strange as that would be, but in another breath he is once again layered in calm so deep that surely nothing could crack it. “His armor’s plating leaves an opening about three inches wide on his backside. It looks weak enough there to pull it apart. Ordinarily, I’d argue that’s not going to help any what with that spell that’s messing with his skin, but I’ve got reason to believe the spell’s only in effect -because- of the armor. Sundance,” he pauses, and the big dwarf tilts his head. “Did you recognize that tree symbol on D’Argo’s abdominal plating?” The dwarven Catalian slowly shakes his head. “I didn’t, Prince. Strangest thing. Thought I’d done my homework down these parts, but I guess I’ve got myself some more studyin’ to do.” Lionel gives the bustling tavern a brief, withering look. “No. You’ve passed with flying colors. It’s the professor who screwed up, Sundance; that one shouldn’t have even been on the test.” Lionel does not seem to pick his way as he crosses the jagged stone tunnel toward Brand and Khitti and the rest of them, but he steps so lightly that none of the many mud traps dirty him at all. For a moment he studies Khitti, but then he continues. “That armor’s not from around here. It’s Frostmawian. But not just any Frostmawian. It’s a splinter group, and this just got a whole lot more interesting. Here’s my advice: we head in there, get some drinks. One of us is gonna have to get behind him and yank that plate off his back. Some of us are gonna have to distract him in the meantime. Whatever we decide, we’d best act fast.”


Brand nods, his scowl giving way just enough for some sense of satisfaction to peek through. “Y’know what they say: when an arrow closes, a plate of armor opens.” The dwarven members of his crew stare. Onyx closes their bloodied eyes in what amounts to either a slow blink or a prayer of ‘why me’ to the heavens. Brand heaves a dramatic sigh. “No one’s gonna even pretend they’ve heard that one before? C’mon, what’m I even payin’ you for? Do as the man says and let’s go.” He ushers them forward. “Radcliffe, Sundance, you’re distraction team. Red, Nomi, your bows are better suited to stayin’ with Onyx and keepin’ well away from the distraction team or outside. You’re to keep an eye on our exit and alert us if anyone starts approachin’ the place as bound to make trouble as this D’Argo fellow. Lionel, you want to be our armor-stealer or another on the distraction team? I’ll take whichever you don’t.”


Khitti :: Lookout. Yay. Thanks, Brand. That’ll help her self esteem right now. Red sighed heavily and made her way back over to Onyx, “Come on. Before I screw up something else.” That really might be the most Khitti-like thing she’s said since she’s been back. Fixing her bow to her back for the time being, she gingerly put a hand against Onyx’s back, giving them her shoulder and the side of her body to lean against, were they tired enough to need it. “You’re alright, yeah? Magic’s just spent for a bit?” She’d let them direct her to wherever was deemed to be the best spot for playing lookout--might as well let -someone else- do all her decision making for her. Again.


Lionel rakes his fingers through his hair as Khitti and Onyx depart. Something will have to be done about this, he decides. Khitti shouldn’t be here. He’ll need to speak with Brand about that and they’ll have to devise a reasonable excuse for keeping her on the ship without question. ‘At least until she’s been retrained,’ a thought briefly emerges, but it’s quickly extinguished by artful self-deception. There is no ‘at least’ in Lionel’s mind, not if he can help it. She’ll need to be protected now. She’s different now, and feigning otherwise is going to get her killed for good. Of course, very little of this tracks with his inner appreciation of Khitti’s shot just moments ago. Although she missed, she fired an arrow through a crowd without harming any of the many dwarves between D’Argo and herself. That alone was proof that something of her prowess absolutely remains. It doesn’t matter; Lionel is bound and determined toward stubbornness now.


Lionel takes gingerly steps to the tavern. “I’ll assist with the distraction. You pry that plate and make us proud. Let’s mosey.”


Lionel | Grahf D’Argo laughs so hard his massive mug of ale shakes like it’s in on the joke, sloshing the hardy brew all over the redstone table. Half the tavern laughs with him, and plenty of others are at least grinning ear-to-ear. A woman straddles his leg, desperate to whisper sultry somethings whenever she gets the chance; she’s being paid very well, after all, and what’s more, she genuinely likes the fellow. More the fool, her, because if it weren’t for his self-perpetuating circle of self-invested charisma, any one of these Craugh dwarves would see him for the prideful prick he is. But fame and infamy sometimes go hand-in-hand, and the world’s most egotistical men can sometimes cast wide nets with their rhetoric. That is what has happened here today, and as D’Argo continues telling the most painful jokes imaginable, his cult continues to lap them all up and ask for more. “And then I says to him, that’s no bauble, that’s my uncle’s hammer,” he carries on, and when they’ve laughed enough he adds, “and my uncle, too!” They laugh some more. “Get me more ale, Ang, and get me more after that. And if any of these louts think that theirs is theirs, get me theirs, too! Glory to me, your champion of the ring, your Grahf D’Argo!” The cheers erupt like a volcano.


Lionel snaps his fingers. Sundance and Radcliffe follow. As he’d hoped, many of the dwarves’ eyes follow them one and all. Sundance for his size and foreign nature, Radcliffe for her assets and foreign nature, Lionel for his humanity and maybe for his ridiculous popped collar, too. They’re none of them Craughs. “You know I heard a story once,” Sundance suddenly bellows, swiping the ale off someone’s table and handing it to Radcliffe. “About a fellow with balls so big he got stuck in a tavern and couldn’t get up again. And while he’s stuck, he goes and gets everyone else stuck with him.” Radcliffe proceeds to pour the entire mug of ale all over her head. It drips down her body like glistening gold. Whistling commences. “You wouldn’t happen to know anybody around these parts what with balls so big they’ve gotten everybody stuck to them, would ya?” Lionel folds his arms and then points to Grahf D’Argo, whose face is red as the swollen sun these folk rarely see. “Might be I do,” Lionel says quietly.


Brand || Onyx has been periodically shaking their head, as if that will serve to clear the fog that has settled in over their vision any more quickly. The three archers have settled in a corner by the time the distraction team arrives, away from the bulk of the crowd and nearest a window that overlooks the path. “It isn’t like you to express concern for my well-being,” states Onyx in an undertone. Their gaze lands fleetingly on Khitti before settling elsewhere. “It will pass. The captain is concerned I have caused myself pain by putting too much into my illusions. He does not realize that such a thing is fundamentally impossible.”


Brand, meanwhile, does what he can to make himself unnoticeable and quiet, but that can only go so far as a human in a tavern full of dwarves. Perhaps they would have been better off saving Onyx’s talents for disguise, but how could they have known they wouldn’t be facing off D’Argo in the arena? Brand pushes his way toward what would ostensibly be the bar, mumbling the occasional ‘scuse me, pardon me. Please don’t mind the tall fellow innocently trying to get his drink on. He passes behind D’argo and his hand ‘slips,’ right under the straps keeping the armor in place. With a deft hand, he’s undone it, and Brand literally rolls away with the back plating, bowling over the several dwarves in his immediate vicinity before it becomes quite clear what has happened.


Khitti blinked a couple times at the undead, though of course, she didn’t know they were such a creature, “It’s not?” Another frown surfaced, “The fact that he cares about anything right now besides dealing with that dwarf is surprising.” It might be a little obvious that Brand hurt her feelings with that scowl and attitude he’d had not long ago. “What do you mean it’s impossible…?” was said after a few moments, her curiosity getting the better of her. “And… if you’re sure about being alright, I’ll try not to worry. Seems to be the only thing I can do right though. Can’t shoot arrows properly when I need to. Can’t help at all.” The redhead sunk down into the corner, her back up against the wall just beneath the window.


Brand has undone D’Argo’s power source, but Grahf D’Argo’s power has spread in less tangible ways. In a single simple action, the captain of the Tranquility has unwittingly unleashed pandemonium.


A Dwarven Party Without At Least Three Deaths...

Ulster Ironbeard slams the tavern door open so wide it snaps against the wall like a whip. His big eyes go bigger still when he sees the commotion. What he had expected to find was a crowd full to bursting with doe-eyed worshipers of the sickening D’Argo fandom, all of them ignorant to the few scattered spies in their midst. It would have been an easy feat to take him down then, what with Ernhar and her Hairfoots loosing arrows and pitch through the building’s murder-holes. (It is hardly worth noting that this tavern has murder-holes, at least as far as these Craughs are concerned.) Thus, the unfortunate saga of a most disgraceful malcontent would have ended without further insult. But it is not so. Ulster has found the stirrings of a brawl, as D’Argo’s followers swarm around him like soldier wasps defending their queen. The crowd pounds fists together and throw themselves at Brand, Lionel, and Sundance with reckless abandon. A few of them have drawn knives, too. Ulster’s few hidden companions panic as their plan goes to blazes.


“Fools!” Ulster’s wrath compels him to brandish his deadly steel axe, and he leaps into the brawl, causing his allies to do the same. Glasses shatter, tables tumble and snap apart, and people shout for their lives. The Hairfoots make an aggressive gamble, shooting their arrows through the murder-holes with hopes to clear out the rabble. Dwarves battle dwarves, some to the death, all because of Grahf D’Argo’s abominable charisma. It’s all Lionel and Sundance can do to keep up, launching their fists against attackers and blocking when given the chance. Sundance’s jolly laugh might have drowned out some of the bloodshed were it not for the jollier laugh of another: Radcliffe, soaked in ale but wearing it like combat paint while she bashes skulls into submission with the very bottles her would-be suitors have gifted her.


Somewhere in the crowd, closer to Khitti and Onyx than anyone else now, Grahf D’Argo squeaks and shivers like a naked man as he fails to harden his skin or tap into any of his other armor-enchanted abilities. He grabs his assistant Ang in desperation, but Ang lets go when he’s struck by a well-timed uppercut. D’Argo wails and hides beneath Khitti’s table, praying for those strange Frost Giants to return.


Brand ’s tumble has taken him to the corner opposite Khitti and Onyx. The armor plate has come with him and is immediately put to use, blocking a blow that would have come to his head. But it’s not like him to use a shield for long. He channels his magic into the plate until it glows red hot at its outer edge, then wields it like a strange kind of axe, chopping at necks and scalding limbs.


Brand || Onyx, meanwhile, spies the approaching D’Argo and places a hand on Khitti’s shoulder, directing her attention the dwarf’s way with a nod. D’Argo himself may be a coward who scrambles under the table to hide, but his presence might draw more attention to this weary lookout party than they can handle.


Khitti's attention shifted away from Onyx and their conversation momentarily as Brand does his thing and weakens D’Argo. But then all hell breaks loose, because of course it does, because that’s how things go with the Khatalians all the time. There’s clear concern written on her face now and it only grows moreso as the undead beside her redirects her thoughts back to the situation at hand: namely, the dwarf at her feet. Khitti stared at the dwarf and he’d likely stare back eventually once he realized that Onyx and Khitti knew of his presence. Just then an idea struck Khitti--and it was very Khitti-like idea indeed. Without much more thought, and without clearing it with Onyx first, an arrow is retrieved from her quiver and in the same fluid motion, the table is pushed out of the way just enough to accommodate Khitti’s swinging arm as it came crashing down onto the dwarf--or, rather, his foot. One way or the other, she was going to put her arrow through D’Argo and this was the perfect opportunity.


Khitti :: Oh but Brand really needed help too now, and whether or not her arrow succeeded in pinning the armorless dwarf to the floor, Khitti’s thoughts would return to that tumbling Catalian. “He needs help.” But what was she to do? She had to try to keep D’Argo contained with Onyx. She screamed for help in the back of her mind, as if that would do something, as if it could help her formulate some sort of plot to aid her boyfriend. And then help came. It came in the form of a shadow portal opening up above Khitti’s table and out popped a spider. A very large spider. A very large spider that probably, very likely, crush D’Argo underneath its massive weight. Once again covered in runes, Francis, the first of his name and firstborn of the Mother of Spiders, made himself known and he… purred at Khitti? It purred and nuzzled against her leg. It… was her pet?


Khitti was certainly beside herself, but now wasn’t the time to ponder on things. “G-go help Brand! Please!” The eight-legged beast gurgled out a soft blurble from between its mandibles and leapt across the room as hunter spiders do. There was no hesitation whatsoever as it tore into anyone that got near Brand, protecting his human dad at all costs.


Lionel | “Oh, yeah,” Lionel mumbles to himself as he draws his face back from a meaty dwarf’s fist and grabs the fellow’s forearm, twisting. “This takes me back.” A chair comes flying at him now, a chair that Lionel blocks with his elbow -- which hurts about as much as it sounds. “Did I ever tell you about the time me and Demont fought a whole church’s worth of demons in the Second Immortal War?” A dwarf springs at him with hopes of grabbing, but Lionel tucks in his limbs to make himself smaller and barrel rolls out of reach. “It was rather like this,” he goes on, grabbing an anvil from a table -- why was that there, anyway? -- and bludgeoning one of D’Argo’s goons in the shoulders with it. “Except instead of dodging chairs, we were dodging silver arrows with points as sharp as Francis in a shadowy crypt.” It is then that Lionel notices Francis materializing from a portal near Khitti and Onyx. “Oh. Hi, Francis.” Ulster’s soldiers take the initiative that the many-pronged battle has provided, cornering several of D’Argo’s remaining supporters but failing to capture that woman who had recently been plopped down on the pariah’s lap.


Lionel | Grahf D’Argo never asked for this. The Frost Giants were very convincing: he’d be rich beyond his wildest dreams. Women would flock such as women have not flocked in Craughmoyle since the days of Harstaag the Staagharthur. All he had to do was give their armor a chance. “I, I, I, I, I’m sorry,” he wails, shivering in pain from the arrow keeping his foot stuck to the floor. “I was always afraid!” Well, he has good reason to be. A massive spider is now falling down. Death from above. An audible squish causes a few of Ulster’s men to flinch. It causes D’Argo’s to scream bloody murder. Here lies Grahf, son of Kahn. You’ll have a tough time getting his ooze into a casket.


Francis, Spider and Peacemaker Extraordinaire

Lionel | “So anyway, there I was,” Lionel holds out his left arm horizontally, knocking the woman flat on the floor mid-sprint. For the record, she had a knife, too, and she was totally fixing to gut somebody. “Demons all around me, guy named ‘Demont’ my only ally against these actual -demons-, and I had just seconds -- milliseconds -- to react.” A handful of Ulster’s and D’Argo’s followers have temporarily ceased hostilities out of passing interest in Lionel’s tale. Up above, the Hairfoot archers have successfully landed shots at a few of their foes, but now they’re arguing amongst themselves, like dwarves do, prompting a momentary pause in the ambush. “We could have fought bravely inside that church, Demont and I.” Sundance holds his fist out, stifling a sneeze. His opponent is polite enough to wait. After his sneeze, Sundance beats the man unconscious. “We could have. We didn’t. Sometimes, down is up. Sometimes up is down. And sometimes, when you’re lost in a sea of bloodthirsty people? You run.” Radcliffe hmms and finishes her ale. “That was a good story. Eight out of ten.” Lionel narrowly dodges an axe. “What? No, I meant that for everybody. Ladies, gentlemen, children, spiders, we did the thing, now let’s get the hell out of here!” Ulster belches something at him about being brought in for intensive questioning, but Lionel’s leading the way out the door, so long, smell ya later.


Brand is nearly dead to a dwarf with a particularly grisly-looking knife when Francis bounds across tables to knife the fellow in the neck. Before Brand’s eyes the dwarf gargles blood and collapses. Francis withdraws his fangs and crows cheerfully. “Yeah,” says Brand. “Good to see you, too.” It’s at that moment that Lionel calls to run, so the reunion doesn’t last long. “Go help Onyx get outta here, ‘kay, buddy?” Brand fights his way out of the crowd and out the door, and Francis leaps back to the table of D’Argo’s demise. With a strangely agile leg, Onyx is thrust off of the bench and onto Francis’ back, and with another happy warble Francis busts out the door, taking half the frame out with him.


Khitti is strangely enough not freaked out by the spider. Who is this and where’s the real Khitti? There’s squished dwarf guts on her outfit and that same spider is hauling Onyx and the female dwarf off out the door, following along behind Brand and Lionel. It was definitely time to leave. Khitti doesn’t jump on the spider’s back, but she does give Ulster a little wiggle of her fingers and a grin as he shouts at Lionel, saying ‘bye!’ ever so cutely before she’s running off towards the Catalians along the path Francis made--because who’s stupid enough to stand in the way of a cow-sized spider that just flattened someone?


Lionel | Francis’ spectacular exit catches all the combative dwarves unawares. Mid-blow, mid-shot, mid-order, mid-vengeful-exclamation, they all stop what they’re doing and blink. Ulster Ironbeard breaks the silence. “When was the last time any of ye ever seen that tavern door break in such a fashion?” One of D’Argo’s survivors scratches the scruff of her beard. “Maybe last Tuesday, innit?” A Hairfoot archer up top chimes in with, “the Hotpups crash that door on the regular, trying to bring ‘em all in at once, no?” Ulster spits. “Says there’s ten thousand of ‘em, and each of ‘em their finest. Well, alright. Another question: when was the last time any of ye ever seen that tavern door break because of a giant fecking spider?” Scratched beards are the only sound. “I think that’s the first, mate,” the bartender acknowledges. Then the entire crowd, friend or foe, bursts into raucous laughter. Drinks are poured, dwarves are dancing, and it’s all water under the bridge. Grahf D’Argo’s liquefied ooze drenches the planks.