RP:Barnabas and Rorin Went Tumbling Down A Hill

Summary: Rorin encounters Barnabas. It goes poorly.

Xalious

Rorin walked slowly down from the peaceful path and so far had enjoyed the quiet. He made no clanks or clunks on his way, wearing plate mail only on his limbs and a full helm over his head. His face was covered but he had a slight smile while he was enjoying himself, the tails of his armored coat billowing a bit in a light breeze, the swish of his workers pants. His arms rested comfortably with the elbow of his left on the pommel of a strange looking short lance, and his right on a rather large heater shield. The third item on his belt was just as odd, a throwing weapon sometimes called a glaive. He had just come down from the harder part of thr path on his way to another scouting point and he looked around at the clear cool weather on a so far pleasant day. Perhaps he could even hum. Things were going rather well for him, at least, till this hour...

Barnabas Bones was making the arduous climb up the Xalious slopes. He was dressed quite poorly for the harsh conditions; naught but a few articles of silk and leather kept out the stinging cold, and he was suffering for it. His face was contorted in discomfort and fatigue, and he labored himself upon his knees with every step. He had no cause to climb the mountain, merely a curiousity to see what lay beyond it. At his waist a basket-hilted cutlass swung in the purchase of its scabbard, the brass of its hilt catching a few powerful glints of the sun as it did so. The listless breeze made his dreadlocked hair dance as errant ropes about his pained features. The symphonious sounds of the birds, jubilant and carefree as ever, seemed to perturb the pirate, as if their optimism in the midday sun was inherently offensive to him. Barnabas' gaze was fixed on the path undertread, and so he was oblivious to the descending knight until he was already too close to avoid. A flash of light reflecting off of the plate mail beckoned his attention, and when he was to glance up, it was just in time to see a great centurian bearing down on him. Barnabas' bony shoulder met Rorin's shield, elliciting a stream of profanities from the pirate's parched and cracked lips. "Bugger you," he snarled, spitting on the knight's shiny boots with the little moisture he could muster in his dehydrated state. "Reckon yer helm's too tight fer yer squishy lit'ul brain."

Rorin became rather upset. Here he saw a stranger in distress and to the hells if he wouldn't wish to help the poor soul. With that the paladin-hopeful would approach. However it would appear one met the other in a rather tumultuous fashion and Rorin was already starting to crouch in order to help the poor man up. "So sorry sir," came his tin and gravel voice from beneath the helmet, "here have a hand?" The man made some odd coughing way as Rorin attempted to more or less pick him up. "You seem dreadfully worn, sir, care that I'd take you back to Xalious?" Rorin was a familiar face there and this man seemed to be in need of food and drink and possibly a coat before going much further. "Do you have business in Frostmaw?" He'd ask comversationally, having spent most of his time there. "Would you like me to get you a coach?" A rather kind offer for the cost. The pass was dangerous, frought with monsters, and terribly cold. It would be the death of this man, light as a bag of bones! Surely he hadn't meant to make the climb all on his own like this?!

Barnabas snarled at the profference of Rorin's hand, shaking his head and ropeyarns of hair as he placed his hands and feet beneath him to rise. The knight's apparent need to assist him was received with great annoyance, as his queries were collectively ignored while the wayward sailor righted himself and brushed the dust from his person. "Not only are ye a clumsy bugger, yer nosey's feck too," Barnabas would observe, scanning him and his battle regalia twice over with a mote of incredulity. And quite bedecked, apparently. "Yer mum dress y'like that?" he sneered, once again ignoring his extension of assistance and offering in return as punctuation a rather sharp shove to Rorin's shield. Although Barnabas was remarkably gangly, he possessed a strength that his figure belied; thus the knight might be caught by surprise by the sudden stiff push backwards. It was his intention, vindictively, to make Rorin meet the ground in a similar manner as he just had.

Rorin stood somewhat lost as to what exactly he was supposed to do when someone didn't want help. On top of that he wss being insulted, so more over he simply scratched at the back of his helmet. "Scuse me?" He asked, not truly proud of his armor but having spent a lot of work just to get it let alone maintain it. Rorin was shoved rather rudely by the man but stood his ground. He was surprisingly light, but knew how to keep his stance. "What's your sciff, scarecrow?" Rorin asked, though he was rather forgiving this particular individual seemed both beligerent and haughty. He wanted little to do with him, and though normally Rorin would simply walk away or kindly apologize, he'd already tried one of those routes. So whatever this guys problem was, he could have it. And that cutlass at his side with the scars that covered him told a much different story than wandering stranger.

Barnabas Bones' nose curled with palpable disgust, as if Rorin had just defecated in his armor. "M'skiff, mate?" he chirped back with all of the venom of a hungover pirate. The fact that he was unable to topple the steel-encased knight clearly frustrated him. Oh, how entertaining it would have been to see him roll down the slope. Now his brackish eyes widened and swirled with coalescing anger and his mind swam with flashing visions of visiting greater suffering on the stranger. Barnabas' dirty digits fell preemptively to the hilt of his cutlass, the blackened fingernails idly tracing the swept basket handguard while he considered his options. For now, it seemed, he was content to merely bore his gaze into Rorin's helm - a staredown. "Scarecrow, y'say?" tested Barnabas, coyly placing the toe of his boot upon Rorin's in an effort to disrupt his balance and footing should a melee ensue.

Rorin contorted his facial features in utter consternation behind the mask of his helm. He had a wide stance probably aware that he'd just encountered a rather violent sort of pedestrian. It was clear in the strangers eyes exactly what he wished on Rorin moreso even than as he fingered his sword. Rorin paused. He took a deep, silent breath. He slid his foot out from under the strangers and made turn to continue down the slope, scoffing him off derisively. Rorin was more than just aware however he was perceptive, and so he waited for that ever familiar feeling of immenent danger to either swell to a head or peter off...

Barnabas did not pry his gaze from Rorin, nor his hand from his sword, as the knight turned and stepped past to continue his descent. The pirate simply pivotted to allow the knight such freedom, and then promptly placed the flat of his boot against the small of his back. Leaning his weight forward and at the same time that he extended his knee in hopes to send Rorin propelling downhill, he simultaneously drew his cutlass and prepared to skirmish. The pirate was fairly confident that the track was otherwise empty of passersby and witnessess, and he had a hefty figure in mind that he could get for however much of his armor he could shoulder back to town. The barren snowy peaks did not interest Barnabas much anymore anyways - this walking emblem of authority would provide threefold the entertainment as those frigid wastes.

Rorin waited until his senses told him the anticipated danger was at a fulcrum. As Barnabas' foot reached for the small of Rorins back with all its weight, something would happen. First the pirate would feel a small drop as if he'd struck, despite still being some inches a way. Then, in the proceeding moment, a tingling feeling would travel up his and into his body, before Rorins instinctive defenses would truly activate. A white-blue shield of glowing light would explode into being behind him; sending Barnabas back with all of the force and might that had been in his kick, likely sprawling him out quite a distance from the pilgrim onto the ground. "I wouldn't have done that if I were you." Rorin told him with a much more serious tone than before and drew his lance and shield as he turned. "Now I suggest you put that down and back away before one of us gets hurt." He didn't want to kill the stranger, or even maim him- but he was damned if someone was going to strike him and get away with it. The man had no rhyme or reason, no justification, and Rorin thought for a moment if he should just forgive this sorry soul. Even as the thought occured to him Rorin was still quite ready to be attacked.

Barnabas found himself strangely in the dirt again, catapaulted back as if he had just tried to shove a wall with all of his might. He had no time to ascertain the forces at work, though, as he saw Rorin looming over him several feet down the path, still rooted where he stood, and brandishing his lance at a convenient distance. Perhaps he shouldn't have bought that bottle on his way through Kelay. Barnabas was nothing if not headstrong, though, and hadn't the temperance to recognize the circumstances of defeat. So, naturally, he scrambled onto all fours, but not before slinging a handful of dirt towards the stolid knight that he had clawed up from beneath him. The efficacy of the ploy was not given any time to consider or observe, since Barnabas launched himself bodily from his hands and feet towards Rorin, hoping to wrap up and catch the man below his large shield and center of gravity. He did so with cutlass in hand, contrary to Rorin's probably wise suggestion, which he flicked about before him in a deft but hasty attempt to parry and deflect the tip of his mark's lance as he closed the space from his low approach.

Rorin watched the confusion that usually followed the appearance of his barrier. He still recalled the time an bugborc had brandished a giant axe against him, and he simply stood there and waited for it to come down. Of course that hadn't been his idea but of the harsh knight he had squired for. Since then Rorin had cherished it as something of a trump card, putting great value in it's element of surprise. This poor wretch though didn't seem to know much of what he was doing. Rorin raised his shield against little more than dust and dirt before the raggedy stick man had latched onto his legs. Rorins lance had been deflected but this still didn't seem like a wise place for the stranger. As always his weapon remained in his left hand, and his shield bore down towards the strangers back- the bottom point of the heater shaped shield could certainly mark for a cracked rib in the unwise if not worse- and Rorin made quite the hefty attempt not to go down, though he wasn't sure he could keep up much longer against what equated to little more than a rabid dog.

Barnabas would have been quite analagous to a rabid dog, if a rabid dog's attacks were calculated. Rushed and desperate, yes, but uncommited he was not. The pirate connected with Rorin's platemail, his cheek pressed against the cold metal and his arms encircling the man's waist. The shield was fashioned well for offensive use, it would seem, and Barnabas felt the point crack into his lower back just beside his vertebrae. He let loose a great breath of air with a quick howl pain and lost his grip on his cutlass, but he refused to uncinch his grasp about Rorin's hips or hesitate in the pursuit of his position. The blade clattered to the dust behind the knight, and Barnabas continued to pump his legs with every bit of effort he could summon, lifting and driving him, hoping to take the melee to the dirt and go tumbling down the hill bodily with his adversary. The pirate knew well his favorite tool remained secreted away in its sheath around his left ankle - his trusted diving knife - and that with this he was much more likely to find a home within the folds of Rorin's armor than with the gouging blade of his cutlass. Were he successful in uprooting the knight, he would roll with him, entangled, and endeavor to place the aforementioned knife somewhere convenient along the periphery of Rorin's curiass. Targeting the area around his armpit marked through experience that Barnabas had tussled before with foes as heavily armored as he.

Rorin abandoned the damn bloody shield as he went down, hitting the blade far enough out of the pirates reach. Soon the pair was a tumble, straight down the hill that Rorin had every intent earlier of walking quite merrily. And so it was that Rorin chose to encapsulate them in that same white-blue divine energy, creating a bubble while he turned the pommel of his lance to try beating at his opponents temple and get him the hell off! It was then that Barnabas knife found a spot in Rorins right armpit, causing quite a shout from the pilgrim. The thickness of his surcoat had saved him from any serious injuries but using that arm might be a problem for a bit. Rorin decided it was high time to end the trifling game. He let go of his lance which tumbled out of the shield and onto the ground and moved to stick his gauntleted hand near the strangers face where he would let go a flash of divine light and try to jaw the man, letting go of the shield altogether where they'd tumble to flat ground. Wether or not Rorins strikes homed true he was hoping they were scattered far enough apart to gather his wits after the fall.

Barnabas clung desperately to the metal form before him as the two careened head over heels down the treacherous slope. He felt the familiar resistance of flesh as his blade struck true betwixt Rorin's impentrable armor plates, and he found it instantly encouraging. His fortitude was quickly flooding from him, though: a direct result of the heavy blow to his back. Adrenaline was his fortune from here on. And then they stopped, some forty feet down the path from whence they began their violence and where his cutlass lay. As Barnabas prepared to poke his inconspicuous blade into another vulnerable niche, he found himself staring at Rorin's gauntletted hand. No sooner did he register the threat than an unexpected flash of brilliance blinded him thoroughly. His head slammed back as if an ogre had just clocked him square in the jaw, and his eyesight was swirling with spots and tracers. His frantic grasp upon the knight was lost, and he knew he was in a compromising situation. With the agility due an acrobat, Barnabas launched himself backwards with little heed to the grade of the ground beneath him, and somersaulted away from what he assumed would be an emminent coup de gras. His fingers still held his diving knife, and as his vision began to bleed back he made out Rorin's form on the ground. He spun the knife in his palm so that its point directed downwards, and came to rest on his heels. Barnabas was dizzy from the blow, his head ringing and swimming, and with little else than a murderous purpose he sprang forward again from his crouched position, endeavoring to land upon Rorin before the knight could find his feet again.

Rorin had enough of this. He stood with the crook of his arm pit bleeding, just above the ribs. At least it wasn't his lance arm. He watched the nimble pirate, himself heaving and barely wishing to stand. The mangy bilge rat leapt at him. Barnabas had made quite a mistake. Rorins good hand shot forward and from it launched something that would be hard to identify from Barnabas airborne position until, if Rorins spell struck, the pirate met the ground with sudden and extreme force. Rorin had used one of his less trained spells, but was still deadly accurate with Barnabas becoming a projectile. If it had struck true Barnabas would find a blessed collar having appeared around his neck, the metal a strange white glow, outlined in blue with elvish writing upon it. It would have been connected by a lengthy chain of the same light to a similiar cuff around Rorins wrist, having planned to use it more like a whip bringing it up then trying to slam Barnabas down. Of course, if he missed, Barnabas could always bounce full force off of Rorins magical shield again unless he found just enough time to gain advantage over the holy pilgrim.

Barnabas found himself restrained by an unexpected force after he hit the ground with extreme violence. Dust spat up around him, and he kicked vainly in frustration as it dawned on him that he was, once again, face down in the dirt. This was indeed tedious, and now it appeared his last effort to subdue the knight was effectively thwarted. The pirate dropped his knife in the dirt beside him and began clutching about his neck in a useless attempt to release his ethereal restraints. Frantically he kicked and bitterly he swore, writhing on his back beside the knight, arching up and slamming himself down in a vain attempt to escape. If there was one thing that he detested as much as an authority figure, it was most certainly magicks; and here Rorin was an effigy of both of these aspects, and even worse, it appeared he had Barnabas dead to rights. Blood began to trickle down the pirate's visage, mingling with the short and curlies of his beard and wetting the dust about him in his struggle. Through gritted teeth and snarls, he found the blade once more and plucked it up by its tip, flinging it forward at Rorin in much the same motion. It was quite a meagre attempt at a counter strike, but it was about the only card he had left in his hand. Perhaps, if nothing else, it would give him a moment to delay what he seemed to know in his black fetid heart would be an impending death blow.

Rorin watched the man struggle in vain. Only true evil or forces of strength greater than Rorins own faith could break the chains of the divine. This man was neither but he damn sure was a biter. The man struggled and found his cutlass that had tumbled down somehow. Rorin knew he couldn't hold the chain and put a shield so it was one or the other. Damn the fool as he did little but throw it from the dirt. Rorin was too exhausted to dodge. In a single motion he pulled the chain again, growing it and the collar taught, the light bruning a bit into Barnabas neck just a bit, before breaking the chains and allowing the collar to dissapear after its incredibly painful tight burning squeeze. Rorin magically deflected the cutlass though with such little strength left the barrier barely raised. He grabbed the glaive off his belt and flicked out the blades of the throwing weapon. He knee damn well the pirate may have used that scarce moment to attempt an escape. He didn't want to cut off the mans leg so perhaps he could let him go. But if not it was a decent threat. Rorin could still kill him.

Barnabas could hardly discern in his consternation what had become of his diving knife, and forsooth he had expected little more than for it to bounce off the knight. A scream of agony echoed over the hills as the divine collar branded into the sailor's neck, searing his mortal flesh and coursing further pain throughout his already racked body. It was a relief, then, to find the yoke vanish beneath his clawing fingers. Desperately then he rolled, increasing the angle and distance somewhat between him and Rorin, who now stood ready to finish his unwelcome task of dispatching the brigand. Barnabas began crawling with his hands behind him, scrambling to his feet as the knight would undoubtedly approach and press him further with that glaive of his. Magic! But of course! The pirate's revelation would have been a visible easement of his expression, even a brief shimmer of a grin, as he recalled the enchanted device he had recently acquired. At the same instant he stood, so too did he send a small inconspicuous object from the back of his belt. It was, at least initially, three small black stones lashed together with a short hempen chord. But as the item became airborne and neared its target, the stones and the lashing spread out, and in the space between spanned an unnatural magic-dampening net. This throwing net was quite effective at entangling most anything it was employed to, and as a testament to Barnabas' sudden confidence, magic would be quite ineffective at removing or diverting it. The pirate did not intend to tarry to witness his artifact in action, though, and would take the first opportunity to recover his cutlass from up the hill and escape the scene of the melee. Rorin was most certainly not the top-heavy tinman he had first assumed that he was.

Rorin watched his opponent with fury. He did not expect a net to unfurl but no matter. He simply threw the glaive, aiming to peirce the net and charge at the mangy sod, who was already busy taking off! No matter. Rorin would let him go and trek fiercely up after recovering the weapon. Barnabas was headed up the mountain. There weren't many places to run up there. Perhaps the pilgrim could make a return visit to Frostmaw.

Barnabas scurried up the hill, hand over foot, scooping up his useless cutlass in passing. He wouldn't even look over his shoulder, whether out of fear or shame, towards the knight that bested him and foiled his predatory intentions. Up the slope he went, veering off the path over the shoulder of the mountain and into the barren exposure of the ridge. His form could be seen, sillouhetted by the bright sky, before he turned point and vanished behind the horizon. Barnabas knew he would have another chance to claim his pride over Rorin, but he would have to select the opportunity with a little more care.