RP:Bloody Rain, Some Stay Dry And Others Feel The Pain, Part 1

Part of the Thy Kingdom Come Arc

Part 2 can be read here.

Part 3 can be read here.

Summary: Hildegarde and her army are making merry in the camp when it begins to rain. Blood. It begins to rain blood. And bodies. Chaos erupts, and when it ceases, all that is left is a challenge.

Rolling Hills

Hildegarde’s camp had been abuzz since more and more bodies joined its ranks. Giants, elves, men and more had all come together to stand under one banner; to fight for one cause and it created a rather jubilant feeling. The camp had since been host to a few bards – who all liked to play tunes of victory and glory – and has since become incensed with thoughts of victory and glory! It was well within sight and very nearly within grasp. Or so they thought. The happy campers were playing music that was typical to Frostmaw*: mostly drums, a little bit of the pipes, some strumming of oversized and regular sized guitars and vocal noises to accompany it. Though most are thankful that the giants are not all up and dancing, there are certainly a few who plod along and bounce around though they try their best not to squish any smaller types. Hildegarde herself is amongst the revelry, though she is adorned in her full armour and isn’t dancing, she grins and shares her food with her fellow campers. The music could, undoubtedly, be heard all throughout Xalious and perhaps even as far as Kelay-Sage! The day was clear and beautiful, a cool breeze wafting in from the North they longed to return to. But soon. Soon it would happen! (*Music wise, I think “Another Round for Everyone” from the Witcher 3 soundtrack is ideal!)

Ashe was exactly where you'd expect the man to be at such a time. Seated just off-center with a guitar in his hands, his fingers working the strings, joining his voice to the others. Though he usually stood out some, he was far less easy to pick out of this particular crowd. With his fine clothes replaces by something more suitable for the purpose of the camp (boiled and studded leathers and quilted padding) and his black feathered cloak over that, he was but another unusual figure in a varitable sea of them. Uniformity was not quite the word for this particular army. Though Hildegardes chosen colors were prevalent. Ashe was, by his own word, not a soldier, yet there he was still. And by now a familliar face to many of the gathered between his preformances, work for the silver and hand in the logistics of the camp.

Josleen and Mikael, Hildegarde’s bodyguard and right-hand man, have been spending their few idle moments at the camp playing a popular Xalious card game called Flip. It’s a gambling game, and the bard and giant use human fist-sized giant marbles in lieu of conventional poker chips. During the camps busy moments, they never finish a game, but return to it in sporadic bursts. Today the camp enjoys some downtime merriment and the card-playing duo sit fixed on tree-stump stools (Josleen had to be helped up onto hers) with looks of consternation as they carefully place six cards each face down in the center of the kite-shield table (pounded out to be flat). They hold another four cards in their hands each and begin moving marbles and declaring bets in a complicated clock-like disc. A small group of giants, humans, and elves circle around them to watch. No the card players set their cards down in a seemingly random (but factually strategic) combination of face-up and face-down. Then, the moment of truth, the flip! They flip the initial six cards and the crowd gasps. TIE BREAKER! Josleen and Mikael scramble to flip each other’s face-down cards and steal them quickly to their side and Josleen is just quick enough! You know she’s won by the crowd erupting in a cheer on her side and the way Josleen stands forward on her stump like an equestrian jumping hurdles and wiggles her butt in victory. She tants, “The student does not yet best the teacher!!” Mikael smiles amicably, concedes his loss, but he is a warrior. Naturally competitive, he’s already re-dealing the cards. “Again,” he says.

The northern mountain gave the jubilant camp the gift of a cool breeze, and their presence stalled what clouds would come that way to keep the sky in its clearest state. Clear, dry, and pleasant, it seemed even the atmosphere enjoyed the bardic songs and joyous nature of the soon victorious camp. But despite the open, unblemished heavens above, a few drops of rain pattered on one of the camp's many tents. A muffled thud can be heard from the east, but whatever had made it would be well on its way down the mountain side before any could check.

Kreekitaka hadn't, by this point, managed to get a hold of the expert he'd wanted to meet, which meant he didn't yet have any other uyeer here for joining the battle later (well, besides the two underlings who'd accompanied him here to begin with), so he was instead wandering about the camp solo while his minions tended to his little ditch on the side of the camp. Fortunately, he was big enough that even the few giants who joined in the dancing weren't likely to step on him. After getting a bit of a sense of how things were happening at the moment, figuring Hildegarde hadn't yet had time to work their false-information plan completely yet, he instead made himself useful by slipping into the rhythm section of the musicians and using his own carapace as an additional instrument, tapping his chest and paddles in syncopated patterns, mostly sticking to upbeats and occasionally filling with a hemiola.

Linn hung on the outskirts of the camp, continuing to work on something with his armor. The empty slots that had been cut along the plates on his forearms had now been filled in with a bright violet crystalline substance, the metal bridges over them rejoining the plate with small distortions where he had melted it back together. Despite the merriment in the distance, his mind still seemed to be somewhere else as he was unwilling to take any time off from the various preparations and investigations he had piling up as of late; if anything this work was a sort of escape from the pressure. So he sat around the edge of the camp, focus fixed on the new crystal splinters that had been set into his armor.

Laezila was in the proximity of the area surrounding the camp but neither came to share in festivities nor to lend her aid to whatever came after. There was a single reason of prominence that she trailed Kreekitaka here with Kasyr at her side, and that was a reason of worry and restlessness. The vampire's form was dark, paled ebony skin swathed in black cloth that made form-fitting leggings, boots, and long-sleeve; even the shimmering white of her hair was covered by the tightened cowl of a hood to obscure it better in the backdrop of the twilight hours. She and the revenant stood on a hill that overlooked the battle camp, and her gaze of intense bluebell-hued irises were fixed to the laughing, smiling form of Hildegarde as the diminutive ex-matron spoke to her warden, "You're going to join them, right?" Briefly she spotted Kreekitaka playing, Linn off between herself and the camp, and still spoke to Kasyr, "None of your weird-talk," she hissed under her breath, "You keep Hildegarde alive, okay?" She turned to face the man.

Orikahn prods at his fire with the burnt end of a stick, jostling his firelogs this way and that, trying to keep the flames low without allowing them to die altogether. He's managed to set himself up rather comfortably, what with a cozy little wigwam for naps and teepee frame smoker for fish and small game. What started as a vigil outside the infirmary has evolved into a primitive abode, and Kahn has kept the smell of choice meat lingering tantalyzingly on the air. His new bow is broken in by now, and he's managed to restock himself with a fresh pile of arrows. Beside him, standing out like some sort of freak anachronism amid his neolithic trappings, is a pleasantly tied parcel, done up in brown paper and twine. "The Dancing Destrier" is printed on the side in flourished letters. Kahn keeps it nearby, apparently concerned for its protection.

Khitti pried herself from her and Pilar's tent, a hand clutching the left side of her torso, the music rousing her from the sleep she forced herself to get. As she moves, a low hiss passes her lips as pain courses through her form. She doesn't join in with the festivities, however. She's keen on keeping to the sidelines of the party for now, content with merely listening to the music for now. A bench is found, the vampiress settling herself onto it, dark eyes taking in the event unfolding in front of her. Thankfully, the wounds on her face and the swelling of her bottom lip and jaw had healed, but as various members of the campsite wandered past her, they'd give her the occasional odd look and whispered in secret to themselves.

Gunnar is, as usual, in his tent pouring over maps that have numerous plans sketched upon the weathered paper. Try, the paladin's most trusted lieutenant, stands beside him and aids in the process of trying to plan for everything. It is only when Uthgar, another of Stormbeard's lieutenants, comes into the tent with a broad smile upon his face does the actual rolling thunder of the music and jovial experience that runs through the camp become made aware to the chosen of Aramoth. Try looks over to Gunnar, and says. "Seems to be high spirits out there, maybe we should join?" A nod comes from the former champion of Frostmaw, as he replies. "Go, get used to this setting, for when we return Frostmaw to its rightful leader we shall have to relearn what it is to be at peace." Try, looking at his oldest friend, knows that to try to drag him out wouldn't work, be it by force or by honeyed words. Gunnar was too busy trying to solve the unsolvable, but his tireless resolve would not allow for any breaks nor merriment whilst, in his eyes, there was still work to be done. So, with that, Gunnar turns back to the plethora of maps that rest upon his table, while Tyr and Uthgar make their way out to enjoy the music and company of the comrades within the camp. After his lieutenants leave. Gunnar let's out a heavy sigh. To win would mean peace, and to lose would mean more war and death for his people. Yet, peace itself is a notion that the Paladin if the War God cannot completely fathom just yet. What does an instrument of war do in times of peace? Such thoughts get pushed back once more as the frost giant returns to pouring over those maps with a feverish resolve once more.

Gilwen was among the dancers, twirling from partner to partner with fast steps and a peel of laughter as she and the elves that joined her went through the motions of an old, but well known jig. At least thirty elves had followed Gilwen to Hidegarde's camp, a mixture of rangers, spell blades and mages, and all volunteers who wished to return the favor the Steward-turned-Queen had blessed them with months prior. While a general touch of anxiety threaded through each of them, including Gilwen herself, they sought to dampen down the unease with general merry-making and skins of sweet wine.

Rayala hasn’t taken part in any fighting, or socializing, for that matter either, not in a long while. She has her near-seclusion, and she’s kept faithfully to her duties: the healing of animals: poultices, patches, the occasional spell. Lately the healing has been more magic than she’d like. She needs a break. She needs…people. And this music, this music….it drifts to her treetop abode, easily on the breeze this empathic druid calls friend. And easy, again, it catches in the chambers of her caves. A warthog is finally the one to make the decision, pushing the petite woman out and down and across and over, her faithful hound at her side. Rayala stands now at the entrance to Hildegarde’s camp, watching. Her humanoid body is plated, not with armor, but scales, golden and running over her body. Over them, a long, flowing skirt-with-too-many-pockets flows. Atop, a baggy button-down stretches in the back, where wing attaches to body, though her right sleeve is conspicuously missing an arm; she has it pinned up so as not to get in her way. Her scarred face is framed, too, with golden freckles, and a lighter golden hair, tangled with green vines and leaves attached to a pulsing, glowing flower. She lingers, here, at the outskirts, becoming accustomed again to the sounds-smells-feelings that mean civilization, leaning against a post at her left, and keeping her eyes shut tight. Arajakata, a wild, snarling beast of a chaos hound, or so it might seem, presses close behind, but remains outside the camp for now.

Kasyr 's expression is one of faint amusement, his attention flickering from Laezila to the various individual's about the camp. A few faces are more noteworthy than others to the Kensai, but for the most part, it's a sea of soldiers spoiling for a fight, and the revenant can't really be bothered to focus on them or the wash of emotions they carried, “Mm. It's adoreable to see you be concerned over someone.” The Kensai, for his part, is wearing that all-too-familiar fur trimmed trenchcoat, over his matching ensemble of equally dark clothing, his long silk scarf trailing in the air behind him. “...She's a big girl. I'm sure she can handle herself.” A pause, “Certainement. ...But anyways, if I see cause for an intervention, I'll do my thing. Just, try not to get perforated or something if my attention is redirected. There isn't a carnival here to keep you safely entertained.” Snide remarks aside, the Kensai stuffs his gloved hands into his pockets, and just trails forward, no specific goal in mind.

Aira sits beside Kahn at his little fire, legs stretched out in front of her as she works on crafting some new arrows for herself. Unlike the feline, she is still stuck in the medical tent thanks to the injuries she sustained while hunting dragons. She is dressed in her “war camp attire” which consists of leggings, worn leather boots, and a piece of fabric knotted around her chest allowing easy access to her injuries when she needs to apply her medicine. Her newly crafted bow lays at her side as well quiver. Copper eyes sweep to Kahn curiously. “I need to go out hunting again,” she comments. “There’s not much around here for me to shoot at and I need to get the feel of this thing.”

Pilar found herself flitting between her friends, who were all in different parts of the camp. She just didn't know who to spend the time with! She was dressed in her usual yellow frock, with a white blouse underneath, white stockings and her gold-colored shoes. She made her way to Linn, who was working on his armor, and she watched on silence for a few moments before moving on to Khitti. She knew the woman wouldn't be in the mood for partying, but she wanted to check on her, anyway. She sat down next to the lonesome vampire. "Hey. How are you feeling? Do you need more blood?" Anything for her friend.

More of the illogical showers came down, accompanied by thuds of unseen objects of some heft. But it was only the areas furthest away from the gathering that saw the falling shadows made true. Tents, animals, wagons, the few too drunk or too tired for the festivities would all be greeted with a cool, refreshing, thick liquid.

Orikahn grunts in answer to Aira, and one of the logs falls, sending up a cloud of sparks that blow away with the smoke. With a sigh, he gives up and drops the stick. "You should. We should. There are good woods not too far away. Too much magic, but good game. Good game. We should hunt, yes," he easily agrees, though he seems distracted. His brow furrows, and he slides her a three-eyed glance. "What is 'cakelog' anyway?" It's a sincere question. "It itsn't a log," he's figured out that much. "I can't decide if I like how it smells." Looking back to the box, he leans in and gives a brief, testing sniff. "There's been a lot of talk about it. A man in camp had some." Unsure and suspicious, he sits up straight and glares suspiciously at the paper-and-twine parcel. "I'm afraid to try it alone."

Kreekitaka 's attention flickered up to the sky for a moment. Oh, raindrops. Okay. Worked all the better for him and his people. Whatever that peculiar rumbling was in the distance, he decided to ignore it--heck, he even took whatever its rhythm was and added it to his own, varying it and adding it to his patterns. Dude would make a good bard if he practiced at it--and if anyone could understand what it was he was talking about whenever he decided to start talking. As he glanced about the still-growing crowd, he noticed Khitti--someone had beaten his employee. His paddles flared and he excused himself from the drum circle, working his way slowly over there to eavesdrop a little and see if maybe it was Alex, because if it was that guy was -so- getting punched. And possibly losing a limb. Or five.

Laezila curled her button nose on cue with Kasyr's amused tease, which scrunched the bridge and momentarily distorted the discolored and parallel trio of lines that claw-swipe scarred her face from one corner of her forehead to the opposite jawline. It was accompanied with a roll of those eyes and shake of her head, "I'm not 'concerned', I'm just..." She paused briefly in contemplation of the term, before she offered almost-distractedly, "Pragmatic. She's Balgruuf's most wanted. I can't- The city can't afford to lose her," she ammended, before ending with a prompt, "Again." Her nostrils flared, and the diminutive drow crouched to settle her rear on her heels in order to press her hands, then fingers into the dirt, scooping up the soil in her palm and holding it before her paled ebony and scarred face to more keenly scrutinize it. "Besides," she murmured, "If you were at war with her, what would you do in her opponent's position right now?" She knew what she would do; loose her lycans to rip apart the camp. Line her archers on the hilltops to pincushion Hildegarde's drunken armies. "But you don't have to worry about me; I'll find Shishi while you do this. It wouldn't be smart of me to take part in her battle." Or rather, she had promised. "Besides, I need gramps' help with something." The dirt sifted through her fingers and she patted her palms together softly and quietly to rid her flesh of it as the drow stood, simultaneously looking toward the Kensai. "I'm -not- concerned." She reaffirmed like a teenager in denial.

Hildegarde ’s festive spirit, and that of the camp, cannot be dampened by a little rain! As more arrive and are drawn in by the sounds of the festivities, the knight raises her mug to them all in a little friendly salute. As the rain patters near the camp, the giants guffaw and sing all the louder. Let the rain come! It’s nothing to this band of warriors! The rain patters down properly on the camp now, adding its own little rhythm and beat to the music. The knight cannot help but smile fondly at all gathered in the camp, lifting her mug up for another sip only to taste something like copper. She pulls her mug away and peers into the liquid. “Is that…” she murmurs so quietly that it’s practically to herself.

Khitti shifts her line of sight away from the crowd as Pilar sat beside her. The offer of blood is heard, but ignored for the time being. "I'm fine." A brief glance is sent towards Linn, though her words remain fixed on Pilar, "Zhey sure do like zheir parties, don't zhey?" She watches as Linn tends to his armor, much like he had been when they met the other day. If he looked in her and Pilar's direction, she'd offer him a slight wave, but would otherwise leave him in peace. As per usual when Khitti meets someone new, things had gotten weird, and now that awkward nature of hers was even worse. Her dear boss, Kreekitaka, was taken note of, as well as his path in her general direction, but for the time being, her focused thoughts remain on the illusionist next to her.

Aira simply bobs her head in agreement with Kahn about the woods in the area. She had snuck out of the medical tent enough to feel the magic within the surrounding area herself. “No more dragons for a while, though. I don’t want to be a snack again,” she requests. When the hunter begins to question her about cakelog she audibly snorts, halting her work on the arrow she had been working on. “It’s a sweet treat, local to this area I think. I heard people talking about it.” She drops her eyes to the parcel and then lifts them back up to Kahn. “How did you come by some?” She asks with a smirk.

Rayala hears the hiss of pain above all else, and feels it like a dagger in her brain. It is not her eyes that flick in that direction, but her ears, a turn of the head. A vampiress, perhaps? A snippet of the conversation later, and it is gone, she’s lost that thread of emotion, lost the breeze which had brought her the sound. Rayala rises and makes a slow way around. For anyone watching, they may notice her limp, no longer as obvious as it once was, but still enough to make her gait uneven. Drops of rain plunk down on her head, suddenly. A curious expression flits across her features, or what is left of them, and then disappears. Inside, the curiosity remains. It hadn’t -smelled- like rain earlier…. The dragoness quirks a smile. When she focuses on the rain, she can hear…what is that? Her eyes move behind closed lids. Her remaining hand is held out to her side. It is met by a tongue, and then the rest of her horned hound, that beast with spines and fur alike along his back. His ratlike tail twists behind him in a wag. He looks quite tame, when happy, when following his master. She ventures deeper into the camp. The healing tents. Two beings outside. She sniffs the air. A feline. And..an elf? Too many scents to be positive, but she thinks, maybe. The dragon is distracted by another scent, this one much more familiar. A dragon. A silver? Yes, and one she’s encountered before. She veers for the fearless leader, then, keeping her distance. She looks, nervous, perhaps, before steeling herself, and then, immediately after bolstering her courage, doing absolutely nothing. Maybe she can offer her aid another time.

Josleen , always prepeared for it is spring and wont to rain, opens an umbrella without look at the rain. A couple of giants pop open larger umbrellas over the gambling table. Mikael scoops a modest number of marbles in his direction. Josleen glances periodically towards the bizarre tempo (Kreekitaka’s), but cannot make out the famous fashion designer through the crowd. “Downside to culture clash,” she mutters. “Downbeat disaster.” An elf watching the game agrees. If Josleen knew -who- she was criticizing, she’d eat her foot.

Linn only broke from his work when the rain first began, curiously looking up to the sky for a source along with another brief glance around, catching Khitti’s wave to return it with one of his own. Weather… Reattaching the plates he was working on he got up to move under a tree and continue his work without the distraction of rain on his head.

Laezila 's nostrils flared as a distinct smell came from this sudden rain. "Kasyr..." Surely the Kensai could smell it, too?

Pilar spared a glance for Aira. She wanted to check on her, too, but she at least had company. They could talk later. "Yes," Pilar agreed. She smiled. "If you weren't hurt, I'd ask you to dance." Her eyes moved over to Kreekitaka as he made a beeline for them. She was going to comment when she finally felt the drops of rain hitting her. She looked up, only to get caught in the eyes. She wiped the liquid away, and when she could see again, she could only stare at it. That... wasn't rain.

Many moments of merriment passed before the second unusual rain shower occurred. Its shadow fell upon the area where most of the fracas was taking place, away from the tents and lack of bodies before. It came in fits and starts, some dousing warrior and ally in a quick, drenching shower. Other areas around the camp received a lighter mist, and others still were barely dampened at all. Each small shower, each cloudless burst of rain, was followed by a few moments of silence, but with each separate showering, there was a louder, closer thud. Some tents collapsed under the weight of some foreign object. Trees at the edge of the camp protested with loud creaks and groans the metal objects that assaulted them. The longer the sporadic showers occurred, the quicker some would be able to pick out their pattern: every few minutes, the rains would arrive and stop, followed by a chorus of ominous thumps. The fits and starts, the activity and lulls, they smoothed into a rhythm. The rain fell from the clear sky in continuous spurts, and the thuds rang out in a quick, successive duos. Flames would be doused, and those brave enough to stand out in a spring shower would soon have sopping garments. The people would not smell fresh rains, nor would the smell of moss and soil turned to sludge. Vampires would know what hung in the air, and those that hunted animals and prey would also be able to sense it. What saturated mugs and was licked off lips would taste coppery, and what soaked the garments would stain them dark, if not crimson. Bodies upon bodies worth of blood fell from the open sky, and the loud thuds of the unholy tempest were cauldrons.

Gilwen had spun herself away from her group, panting, to hunt down refreshments, but had found herself distracted by the sight of Hidegarde. "A bug in your drink?" She asked once she neared the knight before tipping her head back to allow the cool rain to drizzle across her heated face for a few short seconds. Licking her lips thereafter, she moved to say something else- however, the belated realization that what she licked off her lips wasn't water, Gilwen reached up to touch her fingers to her mouth. "What in the hell?"

Linn plopped back down at the tree to continue his work, breathing a sigh and scratching his head before returning to his focus only to find the leather of his glove much darker than normal. Brows furrowed before he wiped it on the silvery plating of his other hand to find the color. It was a dark red he knew well. Slowly his gaze wandered back up with a low “Son of a…” With a weak smile and a chuckle he unshouldered his pack to leave it by the tree as he reattached his plates and grabbed the helmet opened up across his leg to close it around his head. What kind of hell was today going to introduce him to?

Kreekitaka couldn't really smell jack at the moment, nor were his eyes good at discerning red. However, as the rain started to mix with the water from his tanks, he could tell immediately that something was wrong. This was thick and felt--tasted was the wrong word--like water did right after you've cut open a shark. Which meant that something very, very bizarre was going on--and that he needed weaponry. Hurriedly, hopefully before there was panic, Kree turned and stalked off towards his group. Time to get mounted. Vindicator would probably be useful here.

Josleen and Mikael are furthest from main entertainment and literal blood bath, and among the last to be directly hit. Still enrapt in the game just moments before the first shrieks sound from the dancing crowd, Mikael chuckles dryly and deals with slow theatrics a face down card. He taps it. Josleen rolls her eyes playfully. A few drops collide with the umbrella. Then the giant deals face-up on top of that card another and says “The Blind King.” Josleen’s jaw drops, dumfounded as she stares at the card, then her expression turns to fear as a single drop snakes it’s way through the layers of umbrellas and splashes on the blind king’s face. Boom. Crash. Like rice spilling, the sound and blood so thick as it drenches them. The crowd scatters, some gasping, some crying in alarm, most soldiers and controlled. Josleen runs towards the medical bay trailing an assistant elf medic. “What’s going on?” She shouts to Mikael, but he’s already gone to join Hildegarde’s side. Thud. Thud. Thud. Joseeln stops short and like a meerkat cranes her neck and towards the sound. Huh. She knows that… Where has she heard it before?

Orikahn is very quick to give a grave scowl at the mention of hunting dragons. Too soon indeed. Kahn would have much business to attend before they could attempt another endeavor quite so risky. With another snort he allows the mention to pass, and he looks back to the parcel. "Traded for it. Some of those silly gold chips. Seems like you can get anything... with..." Trailing off, Kahn pauses to sniff, and his ears perk bolt upright. Again, his nares flare and a perplexed look crosses his face. "Do you smell blood?" A second later, there is a mighty "VWHOOM" as a cauldron big enough to stew a whole bull whizzes scarcely a foot above his head and crashes through the next tent, leaving a long trench through the camp and splattering the feline (and likely his elven companion) with an ample coat of blood.

Khitti had parted her lips to speak to Pilar until she too was caught by a few drops of the mystery rain. A hand is raised to wipe it away and just as she goes to wipe the appendage on her dress, the smell of the liquid hits her nose. And then she sees the red. The left corner of her mouth twitches a little, unsure of what to make of it. She's starting to regret turning down that offer of Pilar's precious lifeforce now. "Pilar..." The vampiress pushes herself up off the bench with a pained sigh, verdant hues fixated on the heavens. That nagging feeling in the back of her mind that typically happens when a vampire hasn't fed eats away at her, but she dares to ignore it.

Rayala listens to the rain fall, now out of her area, and takes in a deep breath. She freezes, still and silent. Had she tasted that before? Had she smelled it and written it off as normal in a war-camp? “Something is wrong,” she mutters and grunts in her guttural, if gentle, tones, rather louder than she expected, but hardly loud at all in this din, “Take cover.” The skies open, a downpour of blood. She doesn’t mind so much, but she is concerned that it might be -dangerous- for others. She waits for chaos, making her way, more blindly, now —how can she see if she cannot smell anything but blood? — not towards Hildegarde but away, towards the tents housing the injured. A wind whips around her, not from above, but from below, forcing some of this rain up towards the sky. It doesn’t help clear the scent of it. “Something is wrong,” she says again, this time hopefully in the earshot of anyone else, those beings outside the infirmary, perhaps? “There’s something else, with the rain. Some thudding somethings. Are there injured here? Can they be moved? be made safe?"

Kasyr 's head cocks off to one side, calico ears twitching as beads of rain hit it, a peculiar sense of familiarity and relief felt all at once. Storms were generally a good sign for him, and rain tended to serve as heralds for worse whether still. So, Kasyr doesn't really think too much of it, until a few moments later with Laezila's added comment, and his own scrutiny turning towards it. “If I was her opponent, I likely would have caused disarray in several locations, and made all of them rather important to her, to split up her assets. Not struck at her in the consolidated heart of her power.” Running a hand through his hair, the revenant's fingers pull away wet...and discoloured. It's fairly hard to ignore at this point, especially as the peculiar 'weather' continues- coaxing the revenant to pull the blue goggles which normally hung on his forehead down over his eyes, “...Then again. It depends on what I had at my disposal, and the point I wanted to make, j'suppose.” The ex-matron is given a sidelong look there, before the Kensai quietly murmurs out, “Come on.” and begins to shuffle his way through the people in the crowd. Kasyr's destination, simply put, is to try and get as close to Hildegarde as he can, in all due haste. “Oh. And the denial was more adoreable then the concern, Cherie.” Inwardly, the Kensai can't help but wonder as to the nature of this blood, given the individuals present at the encampment. Fermin blood could be weaponized he supposed, as could lycans, or dragons blood. It's a peculiar line of thought- but the sort of thing that seemed not entirely out of place, considering the latest in weird weather phenomena.

Ashe slowly turned his attention upwards when the noises around the camp became loud and unusual enough to not to be explained away by the sharp minded. The bard raised an eyebrow when he spotted something... large, circular and heavy descend on a tent. And then it quickly escalated. The music surely got out of tune and died out as other musicians followed the bards example and figured out what was going on. Ashe himself, meanwhile. Calmly slung his guitar over his shoulder and sauntered up to Hildegarde. “We may have a situation.” Oh, really?

Aira hadn’t paid much mind to the rain that began to fall upon the group. That was until she began to see the off color of the drops that rolled down her flesh. As she takes a sniff suddenly her nose wrinkles and she looks at Kahn just as he seems to notice it as well. “Yeah. What the…” Aira’s head snaps back as the large object flies overhead, yelping as she quickly covers her head to prevent any debris from hitting her. “What was that?” she yells to Kahn.

Hildegarde upturns her tankard now that she recognises the taste of blood in her mouth. Blood that wasn’t her own. She might have laughed at Gilwen’s comment of a bug, maybe even have retorted about eating a bug if it weren’t for that coppery taste. Something was wrong. She turned her face skyward as if it might better explain what was going on, but now her face is smothered in a streaky red. She wipes her face quickly – more so her eye than the rest of her face – and glances swiftly around the camp. She recognises Rayala, but she hasn’t the time to make pleasantries right this minute. What can you tell people to do when it’s raining blood? “Stand aside!” she commands with that all too familiar seasoned battle commander voice, expecting people to stand aside and towards a little bit of the cover available: tent awnings and the like.

Hildegarde said to Ashe, "Indeed. Let's... Let's be ready."

Rainbow buzzes out from the small home the pixie contingent she'd brought with her had hollowed out, which had luckily been protected from things such as flooding, so the tunnels wouldn't exactly be filled with... blood. "... Bloody crows." She zooms back into the hollow and emerges with a hydromancer, who would set to buffering the existing protections of their hollow, creating a sort of invisible bubble around it that the blood seems to run off of. "... Once it's up, set up a personal one on me. There's something I need to check out. And have one of the others prepare a message back home." The pixie that came with her rattled off an affirmation in Pix before working the spell over her and vanishing back into their fortifications to give her orders. Rainbow by then is already gone, zooming over to one of the cauldrons, one hand already resting on the handle of one of the objects held within a leather bandolier that hangs across her chest.

Gunnar is unfazed by the high winds, his tent stands solid for the most part. And the thud sounds were almost lost in the music that was playing just moments ago. What gains the paladin's attention is Tyr, who comes back into the tent, seemingly covered in blood. A curious look comes off the paladin, and Tyr answers with. "Its raining blood?" The sound gets stronger. THUD! THUD! THUD! The winds seems to whip about harsher. The paladin turns to Tyr and says. "Make ready, ensure the men listen to Hildegarde and whomever she chooses to put in charge, I'll be about shortly." Tyr, sensing urgency in his captain's words, does as he is told and makes haste to gather the men of Stormbeard's troop. It is here, once alone again, that Gunnar looks over to a large stand that is covered with a large fur cloak. Walking over, the frost giant pulls it off with one go and reveals what is beneath. Armor, forged from dragon's bone, with a massive axe and sword to match. With haste, the paladin goes to putting on this war armor and readies himself for whatever strange occurence is to come.

Laezila didn't listen; her eyes were rolling back. What she knew was her mantra in her head, 'Get out of here', over and over. Which she did, the lackluster only because her player has to go to work. :(

Ashe dutifully stepped back to give the dragon the space she needed. Complete with a flourishing gesture as if to bow. Not that he did.

Josleen is right outside the infirmary and recognizes Rayala from one encounter they had many moons ago. "Are you a healer?" she calls to the dragon. Last time they met, Rayala was Yerrel’s patient. "If you are, I think we’ll need the help." She points into the medical tent. "I have to--" Again that thud, and her eyes go wide as she realizes what it is. Using her few magical bardic gifts she amplifies her voice like a siren, louder than the din and chaos of the blood-drenched camp. “CATAPUUUUUULTTSS!!! Out of the tents!” Would suck to be in one when it takes a direct hit. Then, still in the same loud voice so that Hildegarde, whereve she may be, may hear the bard, “Ezekiel’s! Rapid-fire!” Ezekiels, her now ex-husband, had built these same catapults for Frostmaw two wars ago. Josleen had helped him buid them, and now the weapons once used against frost giant exiles have been mobilized and used against her, and Hildegarde, her allies, all these good people. The irony of war ever present.

Kelovath had arrived at the camp a few days before today, just after the events of Larket. He needed to find Hildegarde and explain the situation. Not that it was completely needed, but the paladin enjoyed talking to the Queen and thought it'd make himself somewhat better about the whole thing. The paladin stayed rather close to the healing tent, typically getting involved when the damage was severe enough. The blood rain, however, seemed odd, in the very least. He kept close to the medical bay though, and his attention quickly focused on Josleen. Someone kind of familiar. Great! For now, he kept quiet, but knew something more would soon be on the way. Cobalt, sadly, was outside the medical tent. Poor thing now covered in blood. For some reason, the weasel begins to run around, appearing to be enjoying the blood rain. Out of luck, more than likely, the Dire Weasel has made his way closer to Hildegarde. Covered in blood, he may be hard to recognize.

Linn double-checked his pack to ensure that he had the proper marks in it to track it down if it decided to grow some legs before jogging his way into the camp before another flying cauldron forces him to dive off to the side before immediately scrambling back to his feet. Now he ran to the camp much, much faster. By the time he made it closer to Hildegarde and co. his silvery appearance was turned a bright red between the blood coating and reflective mithril under it. He had to wipe the visor to his mask clean multiple times on the way there. Once he had made it close he called out sharply, “What in the world is this now?”

Kreekitaka got himself mounted--and then, with a quick flick of his whip-tail, got his underlings mounted, too. Catapults? Lances up, gentlemen.

Pilar looked to Khitti and took hold of her hand, either offering comfort or seeking it. "Khitti..." She was scared. Anyone in their right mind would be, when it started raining blood. A cauldron landed before them, less than a foot away, and Pilar shrieked in alarm. Then Josleen's explanation boomed in her ears, and she started to panic. They were under attack! What should she do, what should she do?!

Khitti jumped back as the cauldron nearly crashed into both her and Pilar. A growl passes her lips as it would appear that she'd have to fight after all. Good. She still had some pent up anger to get out. The dark ranger turns to Pilar, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her a bit, ignoring the pain it caused her to do so, "PILAR! Pilar. Go get my bow and quiver. Now!" She points at the tent. The weapon and its companion would be inside, laying next to the makeshift bed that had been chosen by Khitti herself. There was no time for Pilar to freak out now. She may not want to fight, but she could at least help Khitti; she was, thankfully, a bit faster than her at this point. Her attention was back on the skies once she hopefully set Pilar off to fetch her belongings, keeping an eye out for more cauldrons.

The macabre rain shower continued far longer than it rightly should; the thuds of cauldrons came every moments, and the bloody showered lasted for a few minutes. But the damage had been done with the camp all but inundated with the blood of human, elf, and beast. The camp was given enough time to see, enough time to witness, and barely enough time to process before shadows darkened the sludge beneath their feet. But these shadows were not diffuse; there were no shafts of light between and betixt them. Small, opaque shadows grew in size, until the first thrown object hit the ground with a loud, slopping slurp. Its last breath was a shallow, bloody gasp. It was a body! One of the few who still clung to life before they ultimately fell to their demise. Drained of its blood and mauled beyond belief, the naked figure’s limbs were broken and bent in all the wrong ways. Its face was butchered, its features beaten to a pulp or came raining down soon after the body. First a series of bloodless, mutilated corpses ended. Were they humans? Were they elves? The pale, mangled, feature stripped bodies would be of no help in ascertaining what they were, much less who! But much like the blood, the corpses soon began an uninterrupted cadence in three, four, five at a time that fell in the largest pools of bloody mud.

Ashe remained firmly where he was, close by his patron, rather than running off or presuming to make some plan of his own above that of the actual leaders present. The bard seemed inhumanly cold, in fact, where he stood flanking Hilde like an expressionless statue. Then, when the bombardment changed, so did his expression. If only barely. Ashe's face soured and hardened as he turned his gaze to a nearby fallen body. Still, he stepped over and knelt by the mangled corpse, inspecting it with cold, businesslike, professionalism.

Josleen runs into the medical tent despite her own warning to evacuate them. There are patients in there, some immobilized, and they need to be moved. Inside the tent she shouts, “Remain calm. We’re evacuating the tent.” Her voice is quick and tense, but the words are clear and the adrenaline pumping through her veins keeps her focused. No need to announce the camp is under attack. The tent tarps are thing. The patients know. The wailing from the non-soldiers, the people who keep the camp running, the service staff and the cooks and the blacksmiths, deafens. “Anyone who can walk, take a buddy, and get out. Head towards The Dancing Destrier.” About 7 frightened, wide-eyed patients begin to scramble to their feet. Gasps and cries of “Oh gods” and “Aramoth save us” are muttered. One giant in with a whooping cough volunteers to carry an elf with a broken leg. As for Josleen, she unlocks one cot’s wheels, one holding a human man too feverish to walk, and rolls it out of the tent. The entrance flap is pinned open. The bodies start to fall around the medical ward, but no direct hit just yet. Outside she shouts, “I need help evacuating the tent!” She dives back in before receiving confirmation of help and moves towards an enchanted cot holding a giant. There are three of these. A string of blue crystals hang around perimeter of the enchanted cots serving as magic battery packs to keep them light and moveable by human-sized medics. It still takes all of her strength, but Josleen manages to push the cot and comatose frost giant out of the tent. The strain on her blood-soaked face suggest it’s like pushing one-hundred pounds. The enchantment is a huge help, but the cot isn’t exactly light, especially not for her. She parks the giant outside near the human and shouts “I need people to take these to the Destrier!” She turns around to go back into the tent when suddenly a large, male, human corpse lands at her diagonally from above. A direct hit on the bard herself. It sends her sprawling with the corpse a good fifty meters until she collides with the iron side of a giant cooking cauldron, her spine curling around the curved exterior like it’s made of rags.

Pilar blinked. Okay. Okay, she had a thing to do. Focus, focus, focus, you can do this, it's simple. Go get the thing. Pilar turned and ran as fast as she could. She ducked into the tent and went straight to Khitti's bed. She grabbed at the items, but kept dropping them, as she was shaking badly. When she finally had a firm grip on them, a cauldron and several bodies dropped onto tent, collapsing it. Several moments passed before Pilar managed to crawl out of the mangled heap. She shakily got to her feet, but her right leg gave out under her. The cauldron had landed right on it, and had sprained her ankle, at LEAST. She got back up and hobbled over to Khitti as fast as she could. Eventually, fell to her knee. She threw the items to her fellow vampire, unable to move any further. "Go!"

Hildegarde flinched when a body dropped by near her. Naked, pale and mangled beyond all belief, it was a horrendous sight to witness. The Silver pushed her hand to Ashe’s arm, holding onto his arm gently. Was she, this fearless battle hardened woman, afraid? Or was she concerned? “Move,” she breathed the word in time with another ‘thump’ that sounded a bit like a ‘splat’. “MOVE!” she roared the word, pulling Ashe and herself aside just as a rather large body came careening to where they had just been standing only a moment to go. “We’re under attack!” “Treachery!” “Rotten bastards!” the uproar can be heard in the camp, the giants, elves and men all unhappy with what was happening. This is dishonourable, this is outright shameful! This is panic inciting almost. “SHIELDS!” the knight roared once again, “Shields up!” she commands, reaching down to grasp a nearby oaken shield; round of shape and painted blue with white zigzags. She raises the shield up above her head and drags Ashe in against her body, before crouching and making him crouch with her to keep them both protected under her shield.

Gilwen 's attention was wrest away from the raining blood and flying cauldrons the moment the first body thrown into camp. Abandoning everything, she rushed toward the prone, disfigured creature, intent saving whoever it might have been (and to also insure herself it wasn't an elf). However, the person died due to exsanguination before Gilwen could even muster up a healers touch- and to add to the unfortunate situation, she could find no indication of what the creature had been, human or elf.

Kelovath wasn’t sure if he had the energy to be involved in the battle to come. Mentally, he was beyond exhausted. Physically, he was capable, and should he be needed, his sword would be ready. With what appeared to be a large attack happening on the camp, the paladin felt it would be best to put his healing into place. He’d need to be careful, of course. Any undead or vampires within the camp would not be able to withstand the holy healing magic. Starting off, though, the man would need to get out of the tent, as the shouting of catapults was heard. Standing inside of an enclosed tent would not be the best place to get involved. The armored man started to run from the tent, but noticed Josleen making her way back into the make-shift building. He remained still and nodded at the directions given by the bard. The paladin did his best to get the more than able patients out of the tent as quickly as possible. Once that seemed to be complete, Kelovath went for one of the enchanted carts. With a push, the paladin could get the cart outside with little effort. Now that it was away from the tent, he felt somewhat safer. That feeling was immediately taken away when seeing Josleen being basically removed from sight in an instant. “Take him!” The paladin yelled to nobody in particular, before running toward the downed bard. He tried to stop right before reaching her, but slipped, tripped over his own feet, and fell, all because of the blood. Taking a quick moment, the paladin regained his sense and began moving toward the bard. Carefully, the paladin reached out toward Josleen, to at least check if she were still breathing.

Orikahn ducks likewise, shielding his head with his forearms and hissing in surprise. Per his usual reaction to unexpected adversity, his tail is puffed, or at least, it would be if not for the thick mess of liquid that promises to mat his fur. He'll have fun cleaning out all this later. A blood-splatter silhouette marks the ground beside him like a second shadow, fortunately sparing most of his parcel. The rest of the camp is doused, fire, wigwam, smoker, and all. Josleen's cry catches his attention, and a lucky thing too, for the cat looks that way just in time to spot a cluster of corpses sailing through the air towards his general viscinity. One catches Josleen and sends her flying, another lands head first in the mud with a sickening crunch to bury itself up to the middle in a blood-filled puddle, and another nicks one of the infirmary's sturdy tentpoles and goes spinning off wildly in his direction. "H-ha-ah! Graah!" He jumps to the side, scrabbling off on all fours and raising dust in what bit of dry dirt there is left, trying to put some distance between himself and the putrid projectile. It goes skidding by, hurtling into the camp and knocking the wigwam to splinters. From his spot on the ground, the now prone Kahn looks to the camp and begins to quickly assess what can be salvaged. "Grab what you can!" He shouts to Aira and begins scrambling back to his feet. In the sky above, dotting the otherwise clear blue, more bodies are soon on the way.

Rayala thinks about transforming. Those in her shadow would be shielded…from falling cauldrons and blood alike. But from how high up is it falling? Does she have room to shift? Her keen ears pick up a voice. “Yes,” she says to Josleen, her voice carrying on the wind. “More adept with magical plants than magical spells, but yes. I am a healer.” She pauses. “But I think...I think I can shield those in the infirmary. If I have room, I can shift, use my body to block attack and lift others to safety. Would you rather use me as shield or use me as healer?” The petite woman blushes. It clashes with her hair and scales. “I am…I am rather large. And there isn’t much I can’t defend against.” She won’t have use of her fingers and pockets, but she would have use of her magical defenses and healing. When, then, the corpses fall, the empathic druid does not, at first, recognize the development. Except, this one, this one here isn’t a corpse, it breathes its last and Rayala aches with it. Her features harden. Her insides roil. She longs to rip and tear and slaughter. Her heart yearns to rampage and the snarl on her face mirrors its intent, as does a wind which whips around her, only for a moment. That moment passes and the wind with it. She is not feral. She will not lose control. She moves towards the tent, panic deafening around her, Ara guiding her. With each step, she feels more in control. The blind dragon steps deftly between falling corpses, often dodging at the last moment, when she can finally hear its position to her, finally feel where the air is not, the trail left behind in the wake of those bloodless things. Yes, better to think of them as things; there is no help for them. Not piles of agony unable to scream, not beaten-to-death…she shakes her head. Evacuate the tent. Like this? With one arm and one leg, a tiny, puny, human? no. If there is room for giants, there is room for her. But…that woman. Where is she? Her head down, the dragon listens, as quickly as she can. Unfound; and there is no time to linger. Thuds and clangs around her, chaos abounds. Another voice, yelling “take him” meets her ears. Rayala growls, low, not a menacing sound, but a determined one. She bends her remaining leg beneath her and launches into the sky, her wings stretching and tearing her shirt. Her body shifts, pulsing gold and grey and black. ‘Rather large’ doesn’t quite begin to cover it, this dragon is massive, utterly and truly huge. Her scales are gold with white-gold patterning, her spines and certain other places deep obsidian, and sharp, everything looks sharp. She is buffeted by several thrown corpses when trying to land, trying to find the places where the air cannot flow, knowing those to be the places where people are, or…or giants? She lands, keeping her wings spread. One forepaw is missing, one hindquarter diminished. As such, when she moves, one wing is lower than another. But she can, and does, provide shelter to the fleeing injured. “If you want to ride, then ride,” the dragon rumbles in a fierce voice. “If not, stay close, I’ll keep my wings up as long as I can.” She lower her head and begins to push the injured Frost Giant’s cot in the direction of the Destrier. “Ara, be my eyes.” And the hound lurches forward, a continuous howl and series of barks telling the dragon where to go.

Khitti barely has time to scream "Pilar!" before the tent they shared caved in thanks to one of the many cauldrons. Ignoring her pain for the moment and that nagging urge to feed thanks to all of the blood, she rushes to the illusionist's side, snatching up bow and quiver along the way. That tiny angry fire within Khitti's heart sparks once it's clear that Pilar's been hurt, a snarl leaving the vampiress' lips. "Try to stay clear of zhings. If you can, go vith zhe healers." She slips the quiver over her head, the ancient bow soon joining it on her back. This was certainly not a happy Khitti. She had that feeling in her gut since she came to the war camp that something awful was going to happen, and right on cue, something did. With the knowledge now that the bodies were unindentifiable, the dark ranger's wisp-like tendrils is summoned up from the tips of her fingers. Focusing on the corpses that threaten to fall on the innocent bystanders, the vine-like magic pulls them from the air, sending them flying elsewhere. She's soon stopped in her tracks, however, as Kelovath uses his holy magic. Her strength is sapped from her entirely, sending the vampiress to her knees with a pained cry.

Linn looked up to look for where all of the bodies and cauldrons were coming from the moment Josleen mentioned catapults before beginning to move in that direction. Unfortunately he wasn’t paying as much attention to where the bodies and cauldrons were –going-. As he ran in another one of the cauldrons came in to strike him with a resounding CLANG as metal met metal, and a few scattered bursts of dim light as magic did to protect what metal couldn’t just before the enchanter was sent sprawling through the bloody mud. The question of consciousness was answered quickly as he began crawling forward again, but its slow unsteady pace signaled that he probably wasn’t –entirely- in it right now. A slip of the hand planted his face in the mud, and bringing it back up didn’t help vision at all. With a low “Damn it” he began wiping the gunk from the visor with a free hand amidst the chaos. At least other people could avoid him if he didn’t move while he had no idea where he’d be going.

Josleen ‘s breath is shallow but quick. Her spine seems intact, the collisions being one of those that looks worse than it is. Still, she’s unconscious and when she wakes up she’ll wish she hadn’t. Gilwen will find that most of the corpses are indeed elves, those sage elves who took refuge in Frostmaw when the drow captured the forest, and did not return to it when the elves took it back. They stayed behind, their love of Frostmaw having grown and made it home. But then Balgruuf, xenophobic and petty, seized power of the City of War and the elves, these mutilated elves, were literally mauled and made into cannon fodder. Gilwen’s people as ammo, as thing. One of the corpses landed near Pilar and just barely survived by some stroke of fortune, a tent tarp breaking his fall before he rolled off onto the ground. He grasps at Pilar’s blood-soaked skirt, his instinct to survive outpacing the logic that he won’t. A couple of shaman giants, healers, begin to load the wounded onto Rayala’s back. Just as the dragon takes off Josleen comes to. Having fallen unconscious she lost the morale-boosting pump of adrenaline. Disoriented, she forgets where she is or why any of this is happening. Her tongue licks her blood-stiffened lips and she cannot remember if the coppery fluid is hers or another. Fear quickens in her soul. She sees Kelovath first, covered in blood and armor, a large man giving her his concern and she confuses him for another. “Collin,” she says as she searches for his hand. “My back.” Pain radiates from her spine. It throbs. The nerves have swollen. She’ll recover, but it’ll take time, naturally. Her lips quiver. The fear starts to take hold. Slowly her memory returns and she realizes this is not Collin and she says, “Kelovath?” Still she grips the bracers on his forearm, but her hand slips on the slick of blood.

Gunnar emerges from his tent the moment a body tore through the top and fell before his feet. Gone was the normal attire, in its stead is an armor fashioned in the ancient designs of the Frost Giants, made from dragon bone harvested from a beast slain while the paladin andc his troop were out in the farthest regions of Frostmaw's seemingly endless boarders. Upon his back, a sword of ancient make, sharpened and repaired byt he smiths of the camp so it reclaims its once former glory. In his right hand, an axe, of the bearded style, its shaft made of the same bone as his armor, yet rimmed with the nevermelting white frost that is found only within the north. Warpaint covers the majority of the giant's left side of his face, which is still covered mostly by the helm he wears, which has twisting horns that adorn it. If anything, the frost giant seems to b ready for a battle, and his presence rallies his men who cry out to their leader. Gunnar's booming voice bellows out as he calls to his men. " Shields up! Rally to those who are not fighting, get the medics to saftey. Tyr! To me!" The giant's number two rushes forth to his captain, as Stormbeard calls says. "Be rea--" A mangled body crashes on Gunnar's left shoulder, the impact causing a slight stumble for the large warrior, even if the thick armor takes the brunt of the impact of the elf's body. The smear of what was once a elf is brushed off, a grave look coming over Gunnar's face as he says to Tyr. " Make ready once we are in position, I want whoever is sending the bodies dead. Their head on a spike!" The anger over the honorless tactic used seems to reach a nerve with the paladin. "We await Hildegard'e order, but when we move, -crush- the enemy."

Rainbow had finished examining the cauldrons at this point, and, having decided that corpses that had decided not to be corpses anymore weren't going to come climbing out of them, corpses started falling from the sky. Which could also be a problem, but they didn't seem to be animated, just corpses. Not that they would definitely STAY that way, but this bombardmant is kinda a problem in any case, so, zipping around a corpse on her way back to the Pixie earthworks, she shoots inside, vanishing for a moment before emerging again with a great swarm of other pixies, about two dozen of them in total, shouting back and forth in pix. Well. Shouting for pixies. Which is kinda reedy and annoying, but not terribly loud, given the lack of properly-sized lungs with which to yell. A few seconds later, a set of armored Pixies buzz off away from the group, the one in the center chanting something as their forms all seem to waver and vanish, shooting off in the direction the bodies had come from, looking for their source. Should they locate the source, they would assess the situation and possibly cause some chaos before withdrawing under cover of the Illusionist's camoflauge spell. Meanwhile, several mages versed in the magic of air take to the skies and shoot out over the heads of those present, trailing what looks to be sparkling dust behind them. As they reach the edge of the camp proper, they'd begin to bank, and moments later the wind around them begins to howl louder. Those on the ground wouldn't feel the wind itself, but the corpses coming in would, as would the blood falling, though that was merely a side-effect. As they come in, the wind would grasp at them like a great hand, throwing them violently away from the camp itself. A modified arrow ward of greatly enhanced power, essentially. Earth mages make way toward the direction of the fire as well, coming to a rest just outside the existing defenses of the camp and beginning to chant, though unlike the other spells this seems to be taking longer. The other mages follow behind Rainbow, who, after whistling shrilly to summon Priscilla and hopping upon her back, flies off toward Kree's contingent, swooping in close beside him.

Kreekitaka , from his vantage point off to the side and atop Vindicator, looked to the sky and watched as the blood rain stopped and the body rain started. This completely absurd turn of events (he was unmoved by the mutilation and actually rather amused by the fact that whoever was throwing projectiles was using some really lousy ones as opposed to things like rocks or hard and sharp things) spurred him to action. First step: identify the place where the rain was coming from. Everything was slamming into things from an angle, which meant, if it's being arced through the air, that it was coming from that direction. That being determined, he pointed in a directon, hefted his lance, and urged his small company forward—a little slowly at first, given the bulk of the creatures needing to move, but quickly accelerating to “fast enough” given the massive scorpions' stride lengths. Should any bodies plummet towards them, Kree would order that their tails stab forward and catch the corpses via impalement. Of course the scorpion would then bring its tail down further and tear the body in two with its claws, just out of instinct, but the riders were able to keep them moving and get them to drop the remnants, and regardless of whatever terrain came their way they wouldn't stop moving at this constant rate forward, which meant they'd cross the distance in a surprisingly short time. Kree happened to catch a glimpse of Rainbow as she approached him and nodded to her. "YeTAH!'s hope our pyan is soyiDAH!, yes? TAH!ime TAH!oo unmask HHHTHese viyains."

Pilar groaned under the influence of Kelovath's magic. "Khitti..." she whimpered. She tried to move to her friend's side, but between the injury and the holy magic, she was paralyzed. It was then that the elf(?) grasps her. She was about to scream, thinking that she was being attacked by the undead, when she looked into his face, his terrified face. Tears stung her eyes and she moved her hand to hold his. The man went limp, then, and died, and Pilar started to sob. She looked around the camp in chaos, hiccuping, and questioning why. Why did this have to happen? Why did people who would do this exist? Her free hand curled into a fist, putting divots into the earth, and she struggled to stand again. Leaving the body where it lay, she made her way to Khitti.

Aira reemerges from under her arms to cast a look around to scrutinize what had come hurtling in their direction in the mass confusion. It seemed like one moment there had been merriment, and the next pandemonium. Aira gasps and immediately begins to backpedal in the mud on her hands as that looming shadow can be seen getting larger and larger, the huntress wasting little time to flee. Another startled yell finds itself on her lips as a mangled corpse lands with a loud thud near where her and Kahn had just been lounging moments before. Eyes widen as she stares transfixed at the various limbs, unsure of what being it even was. So distracted is the huntress by the flying objects that she doesn’t notice her other friends in the mix, like Pilar and Linn. Indeed, it isn’t until Kahn yells for her to grab whatever she can that Aira remembers where she is and what is happening. Hoisting herself up (and sliding in the process thanks to the bloody mud), she manages to snatch up her knife but that’s about it. Kahn is in a better position to snag the necessities but even amongst catapults and corpses, there must be priorities. “Kahn! Leave the bow! Take the cakelog!” She yells over her shoulder as she begins to run forward to see where she can help.

Kasyr didn't really take shelter when everything had become a right (im)proper macabre mess, continuing to wade through the pooled puddles of blood, an unnatural nimbleness displayed in his movements as he navigates the disorder of the camp. A faint whistling noise causes his ears to perk up, and his feet to abruptly backpedal as a particularily bloated elf corpse hits the ground near him, the impact causing already maimed limbs to contort at even more pronounced angles, and a sonorous symphony of squelches to burst into exist. The belly, ruptured upon it's violent contact with the ground, may as well have been a sluice gate, burst organs and putrid liquid spilling out in a rush, and forming a gruesome pool around the carcass. The kensai can feel his eyes watering from the assault on his nose, but forces himself to move forward all the same, closing the distance between himself and the corpse, as he slips his left hand into his coat. A moment later, and the revenant has a sheathed blade in hand, which he proceeds to use to poke at the corpse and turn it over- scrutinizing it for any sign of mundane or arcane shenanigans, interrupted only by his occasional stolen glance towards the sky in case of more trouble. This continues for a few more moments, the kensai's features a grim mask, before he stiffly steps away from the carcass and resumes dashing his way through the camp towards Hildegarde, the sheathe replaced at his side once more. The Silver, despite all the panic and disarray now sown through the camp, would at least stand out to the swordsman- a combination of her voice calling out orders, and a more primal sense of familiarity guiding him the rest of the way towards her. Which, really, the moment he's arrived close enough, he calls out with a quick, “Oi.”and then proceeds to shuffle over the rest of the way towards her, so he can siddle up adjacent to her, “From what I can tell there's nothing ...off with the bo- ammunition. This is just...de-moralization tactics, et contaminating your supplies. Might have made sure what they're throwing at you is sick, as well. All bets are off if there are necromancers allied with them, quand meme.” Really, the fact that the Kensai seems so level, despite being pretty smeared in blood since he never bothered to take cover, is likely a bit disturbing, as is the somewhat detached tone he takes, not a hint of mirth to be found. “Any standing orders? If not, I'm going up, et well.” Kasyr adjusts his coat, the tips of wings peeking out from within them, the appendages clearly pressed tight against his back.

Kelovath had been involved in small battles before. He’d even taken on the Time Lord Vuryal. He had lost that fight, but there aren’t too many that have survived such a thing. But this…It was sickening. Blood, bodies, and a possible full scale invasion was something the paladin had yet to experience. His golden armor was now smeared and dripping with blood, and now mud after falling. Hearing the bard speak was at least something good, given the circumstances. When her hand began to slip, the armored-man was able to catch it regardless of the blood covering his gauntlet. Gripping her hand tightly, the paladin unleashed a good amount of his healing magic toward the woman. Something within him though, shifted, which caused a good deal of his magic to be sent toward a couple of vampires. He didn’t know the pair, but at least some of his magic was sent toward Josleen. It wouldn’t be enough to get her running around again, but to sustain her for the time being. Earlier, Kelovath had shouted, which seemed to get the attention of his partner, Cobalt the Weasel. Cobalt the blood-covered Weasel, technically. And the large mount seemed to enjoy this fact. The mount began sprinting through the camp, right by Gunnar and his troops, narrowing avoiding the falling bodies, all the while prancing in between his swift dodging movements. Whether or not the holy magic took effect for Josleen, the next action was to lift the woman from the disgusting ground. Before that attempt was made, Cobalt came into view. If possible, he would be their way out of the now unfriendly camp.

The hailstorm of bodies slowed from five at a time to one, and the last corpse fell with his empty eye sockets towards the sky. Unlike the others, this corpse was dressed: it wore a battler’s set of fabrics, leathers, and all things else. Ill fitted and on the wrong body, the ensemble was clearly for a woman; Hildegarde would recognize a cacophony of what clothing she left within the besieged city before she departed. But what stuck out even more was the spike that nailed the blood soaked vellum letter into the corpse’s sternum. One word was painted on that sadistic, makeshift breastplate: “Come.” From the letter of guilt, from the trajectory of the blood and bodies, everyone would know who had thrown the bodies and who was ready for a fight. Frostmaw.

Rayala can’t help much with the loading of people upon her, and she moves forward, albeit carefully, as she is loaded up with people. Her concern is getting where she needs to go, as fast as possible, to get these people out of danger. She charts the route in her mind. “Mind the spikes,” she rumbles to the giants waiting the injured, in her guttural common. And then, to the people on her back, “Hunker between them. They’ll provide some measure of protection. You’ll be safe, little ones.” A grin creeps across her face; it would hardly be reassuring to many. It spreads her scales and stretches her scars. But she can’t take the time to care. Her duty is to the people on her back. She throws up mental shields as those in pain come closer, make contact with her unprotected flesh. And in the meantime, while she waits, the falling of corpses continue, the blood thickens and dries on her scales. Her eyes flash hard again, determined, this time, not cruel. She does her best to push the frost giant where he needs to go, grabbing at the cot with that toothy grin when she needs to turn or stop. Otherwise, it is pushed by her head, as her unequal gait — two full legs and one stump do not make for an easy ride, though she does her best — propels her body along. Once the ground grows too rocky or uneven to sustain the pace, she flies, curling her two full limbs around the giant’s cot and holding him, close and steady. This way she moves faster, finally making her way to the Destrier, lest someone or something interfere. Rayala would, once arrived, set up the innkeeper and any medics who accompanied her, and failing those people being cooperative, she’d take some of the less-injured or hardly-at-all-injured or uninjured-fleeing-people, see to it that some order was established, then leave them, soaring back as quickly as possible to the camp to finish the evacuation. She couldn’t tell if she’d gotten everyone out. And that woman, who’d asked her if she was a healer. That woman with a voice she might have heard ages ago…oh, so long ago…where was she? Did she make it out? Another trip was definitely in order. She calls to her hound with a roar. Ara, who looks very much like he doesn’t want to follow this huge dragon -anywhere- reluctantly approaches. “Go Back,” she would instruct him, if nothing should impede with this plan, before lifting off herself.