RP:Heir of Blood and Ruin

Part of the The White Hunt Arc

A carefree flight goes horribly wrong for the group when Lyros falls from the back of the princeling, plummeting into the dark depths of Frostmaw's boreal forest. They soon find themselves the target of the Heir, a massive undead wyvern and Nameless' first son, who was believed to have died some time ago. Hildegarde does what she does best, and Lyros creates a big mess.

First part here.

Some NPCing by Hildegarde and Lyros.

Western Frostmaw

This is not what Lyros had meant when he said, "I want to land." The last thing he sees is the glitter of pearlescent, jewel-like scales against a backdrop of brilliant blue before around him rise the gnarled, grasping fingers of the treetops, like a mass of reaching hands that block out the sun and drag him into the depths of the boreal forest. Heart hammering in his ears, Lyros opens his mouth to call for Riselet — there are still things he wants to say, left unsaid, and things he'd like to hear her say — when the breath is suddenly knocked out of him in a rush, his back slamming against the very top of a tree with enough force that it snaps, sending the drow tumbling into its neighbour and, this time, sufficiently slowed enough that he does not break it. Instead he resumes falling, from how high, he is not sure, his momentum somewhat reduced by the branches he crashes into on the way down. The last drop is a stomach-churning, uninterrupted fall as the lower half of the tree is bare trunk with nothing to catch him— he hits the ground with a sickening crack and only realises, when there is no explosion of pain, that he landed on a thin, broken branch and shattered it in two. Oh but he hurts, all right, an ache running the entire length of his back and an awful sting in his right arm; judging by the feel of it, he thinks he might have sprained the wrist, broken it at worst, and he is sure he will be dealing with bruises and tender skin for weeks. All things considered, however, he is lucky. For now.

Out here, the forest is...grey, and unnervingly silent. Darker, as if an invisible miasma fills the air in this place with a cloying sickness, a terrible sense of dread. Even the snow seems corrupted by some monstrous, awful thing that stalks the wilderness. Tall trees cluster tightly together and the air is close and almost claustrophobic, a poison in the lungs - Lyros is not as affected by that, though the sudden change from open skies is a little disorientating, but he can sense something is not right. A tingling unease follows the bite of aches and pains down his spine and the drow tries to force himself to get up, hands pushing weakly at moss and detritus, struggling to find the strength. His head is ringing and he thinks he might have a concussion; he has to get out of here. But he is only afforded a short silence to take in his surroundings— or take nothing in, for aside from a feeling of foreboding, he can sense and see nothing amidst the trees, no living creatures, no hint of movement. Soon, Prince's wingbeats cut through the unnatural stillness like a knife through butter and the wyvern breaks through the trees, scattering loose leaves and branches everywhere and likely leading the cavalry as he drops out of the sky, landing heavily near the drow. Instantly the princeling is at his side, concern in his golden eyes, and tries to help him stand, but Lyros pushes his great head away with his good arm as he flops face-first into the leaves again. He groans, rolls over, and promptly vomits the contents of his stomach all over the forest floor. And he was doing so well.

It takes Riselet a second to register what just happened. She watches helplessly as Lyros falls, breaking through the icy canopy towards the forest floor. His screams are caught by frozen gusts, hers in turn dissipating into the air. Any frantic grasps towards him are in vain. She nearly falls off of Princess herself trying to grab onto him, but the wyvern rights her before she can slip. Prince immediately dives after his fallen rider, leaving the two flying precariously above the treetops. Riselet herself is a jumble of emotions as they descend closer to where he had fallen: her face is vacant, then powerless, then absolutely terrified before finally sporting a dark determination. “Dive,” she orders lightly pressing her heels into her sides. Yet the wyvern is still hesitant; she makes tight circles around where her brother had plunged, afraid of getting the two injured—or perhaps there’s something else down there, something grim that she can sense. The halfling doesn’t buy it; she grows more anxious by the second, equal parts desperate and vexed. “I said dive!” Riselet’s voice is venomous as she screeches at Princess, boots digging hard enough that Princess lets out a short, sharp howl of pain before conceding. Their fall is as hasty as Princess will allow in spite of her rider’s hysteria and frantic, asphyxiating grasp on her neck, making wide turns around thick, gnarled boughs, searching the dim floor for the Prince’s glimmering scales. They’re spotted soon enough; when Lyros’s broken body finally reaches her eyes, Riselet does not bother to wait for landing. They’re a least a few meters in the air as she leaps towards the ground, stumbling ahead to right herself—a sharp pain shoots through her legs, nerves in agony. It might be sprained, it might not. She doesn’t care. “Lyros!” Riselet doubts she’s ever run this fast before; the descent from the skies and to his side is all a blur to her. Lyros looks like he’s still breathing, much to her relief, but the pile of vomit indicates he’s definitely seen better days. Riselet kneels at his side, hands light as they grab for his shoulders. “Thank Gods you’re still alive! Where does it hurt, where’s it broken? I’m not the best at setting bones, but we need something quick…”

Hildegarde had been distracted by Nameless and his talk of his deceased son, a son who had been seen haunting the skies and the woods alike. “Dead…” she said softly, “Something is afoot in the west. That much I know. The animals have gone wild, the spirits grow ever more restless… I sent my Priestess and company out west to discover what might be afoot, but I am yet to hear from them. I promise you, my friend, I will get to the bottom of this. I will avenge your son,” she vowed to her friend, before Lyros was falling; falling fast and far and landing hard. Riselet was screeching at Princess, Princeling was trying to help Lyros. All too much was happening at once. The Silver approached the group with swift strides, surprisingly nimble and quick for one so heavily armoured. Within moments, she is kneeling before the pair and letting her halberd rest upon the ground as her hands reached for Lyros. “M’lady, apologise to Princess,” she said, her voice not sharp but so very clearly authoritative and not like to brook any argument. Whether she knew it or not, the woman had mortally offended Princess in commanding her so and urging her so forcefully. Perhaps their budding relationship would already be severed if amends were not made. “Lyros,” she said, her voice one that would pierce through the fog of pain easily, “Lyros, my dear, you must tell me what pains you. What this pain feels like. Come, lad, you must speak if you want help.”

Nameless nods to Hildegarde's words as she sets off in the direction of the fallen four; his reply is spoken as the great king takes off and swoops by, turbulence from his wings ruffling the woman's hair, before he spirals up into the air. "I will scout the area but if my son chooses to attack the flock, I may be unable to help you. Go, Silver - watch the skies, and the shadows."

Vision swimming, Lyros attempts to prop himself up on his elbows first, then push from there. The strain on his injured arm is bad enough but the fall seems to have sucked all the energy out of him, stealing not only his breath but his strength, too. His over-stressed body buckles and once more he collapses, a muffled string of curses leaving the drow's lips to be lost in whispers within the forest floor. Thankfully, he did not land in that puddle of vomit. Prince, suddenly hesitant as if finally starting to realise their size difference and its complications, and how easily he can cause damage, hovers apprehensively over Lyros but does not attempt to touch or shove him again; instead lifting a protective wing over his head as a few stray branches fall from above, while turning his gaze to the sky in search of his sister. It is far too late for the wyvern to be developing a sense of awareness, Lyros thinks with a huff - had he considered these things earlier, they would not be in this mess. He is drawn from these thoughts by the sounds of Princess descending through the canopy, and then Riselet's voice breaking through the stillness, shrill with desperation and concern. She does not even wait for Princess to land— "Idiot," the mage hisses under his breath when she stumbles, limbs trembling as he finally manages, with great effort, to push himself semi-upright. The last thing they need is for Riselet to sprain an ankle, too. "I'm fine," he grunts as she comes closer, hands on his shoulders, trying to steady him. His voice is thick, strained, as Lyros finds himself quickly surrounded; Hildegarde appears at his side, equally worried, while Princess hangs back in the wings, looking distinctly hurt. A heavy sigh escapes him and he slumps forward in a moment of vulnerability, pressing his forehead lightly to Riselet's shoulder and leaning into her for support. Fear is a four letter word that can even affect the drow, after all. He did not expect to live to see her again. "It's nothing, I'm fine." He tries to shrug their words off all the same but his tone is unconvincing and weak. "I hit my head and I think my right wrist is sprained, but it's fine. That's not important." Lyros does not know this damnable forest as the relatively peaceful wilderness it once was - all he sees are jagged edges, that underlying sensation of wrong, wrong, wrong. "What is this place? What's out there?" Amber eyes, narrowed in some mix of agitation and annoyance, bore into Hildegarde like knives.

The Heir was but a shadow in the night, his once resplendent scales having decayed and rotted away into a natural kind of camouflage. A few scales glittered here and there, but The Heir had no care: there was flesh and blood and life and all he was not in this lair and that made him hate. And hate was only sated when he ate. Soundlessly, the decayed wyvern swooped into the wyvern nest and completely bypassed all the lesser wyverns, all the babes, even the adults, even the Silver Knight and drove directly into Princess. His rotten jaws clamped upon her pristine and ever so princess like neck, his head thrashing wildly in order to have his splendid sister join him in the state of unlife. Of course, he had Princeling – the newest heir – to contend with. Princeling and Princess were of an age, they were close: near enough twins really, they had bonded so closely. Unclamping his jaws from his sweet sister, his head swung to look at Princeling and it rattled terribly. Half the scales and muscle were gone from his face, it was bone and rotten eyeball; bits of flesh and muscle hanging limply from the untarnished side of his face. He did not growl nor snarl nor roar, he only made an ominous kind of rattling noise: a deathly rattle as he launched himself at Princeling. First the wyverns, then the meat.

Riselet's breathing is light and shallow once she manages to right Lyros. She isn’t convinced. “You just fell from the sky and you expect me to think that’s all? You’re not fine,” she hisses, voice low but tinged with dread. Dark cobalts meet his amber reds. “If we don’t do something about it, it’ll get worse. We need to… ” she doesn’t finish her sentence, noticing Hildegarde’s silhouette as it emerges from behind. The Silver is a welcome sight amidst the panic; surely she knows a thing or two about fixing broken limbs, and if not, she knows somebody who can, right? Yet, rather than immediately attending to Lyros, she implores for her to make amends with Princess—who’s currently watching the fiasco from afar, clearly bitter. Her blood freezes at Hildegarde’s tone. “Oh, r-right.” Princess is unsurprisingly distraught after being treated so roughly, and following a short wave of embarrassment she turns to the young wyrm, regretful. Though hesitant to leave Lyros, Riselet turns to Princess and puts a gentle hand to her head. “Sorry, Princess. Didn’t mean t’boss you around, I’m just… scared. Real scared. Can’t be excused, though. You’re a wonderful girl for putting up with me, y’know that?” Though the latter is still surly, she seems to accept her apology with a satisfied whip of her tail. Riselet takes a few hesitant glances towards Princess as she returns to Lyros, still feeling as though the apology wasn’t proper. She’d have to apologize proper later, but for now her attention is focused on the drow in front of her. He says something odd, about ‘something out here’; Riselet wonders if it’s related to Princess’ hesitance, but she senses nothing. “What do you mean, what’s out th—” A pained choke from behind her interrupts her sentence. Princess heaves weakly, beautiful scales smattered with red that seeps in thick drops from a deep bite on her neck. Who—or what—could so easily cleave her hide? Her question’s quickly answered as he darts past her, aiming for Prince: a simulacra of a wyvern, an undead heir. No sounds dispel from this ghost of a being, nothing but harsh rattles from the bones that make its form, flesh and muscle draping from the skeleton. Whatever it is, it’s not looking to make friends. Riselet rushes to Princess, taking her cloak and hastily wrapping it around her neck, hoping to impede the flow of blood. The scarf given to her, worn as it is, works to hold the cloak in place. A cold sweat starts to form. The halfling can speak nothing but swears now, a million thoughts rushing through her head, none of them coherent enough for her to say aloud.

Hildegarde has no time to address these questions and these worries, for there is blood and death in the air and already one wyvern is roaring with fury. But she leaps before he does: she leaps before Princeling can charge against The Heir and likely lose his life. “No!” the knight roared in defiance, throwing herself up and over Lyros only to clash with The Heir directly. The knight crashed to the ground with a rattle of metal and bone alike, the metal screeching as it slid across the earth from the sheer impact of the collision. The Heir is an experienced fighter, or was once upon a time, and he is already clamping his jaw upon the knightly woman. Crunching through armour with his powerful jaws, the knight roars in pain as her arm is held hostage by the wyvern. A sudden move and he may well rip it away from her body. But there are innocents here. There are people who need her and her life is forfeit. They must live, so she must bleed. With a cry of pain, the knight jerked her hostage arm backward to force The Heir forward: her free hand punching up through his rotten throat to emerge at the base of his neck. A fatal blow… to the living.

Lyros is given no chance to reply to Riselet's concern as she pulls away to speak with Princess, his breathing uneven and the words caught in his throat. The familiar scent of blood fills the air and chaos erupts without warning within the group as a massive wyvern bursts onto the scene, seemingly as if from nowhere, tearing into scale and flesh alike with wild abandon. Wide amber eyes take in the view unfolding before the drow — the downed Princess struggling to breathe, Riselet caught in the middle of it all, the Heir careening their way with rotten fangs bared and dead eyes aglow with unnatural hatred — as Prince screams for his sister, his roar laden with anguish and terror and the sound long, strangely shrill. He is desperate to reach her side but finds himself unable to, for the Heir is between them and intent on shedding more blood. In a swift motion, Prince lifts his wind over Lyros' head and places it in front of him instead, like a makeshift shield; he moves to throw himself into his elder brother and meet him head on when Hildegarde intervenes, taking the blow and sending the Silver and her undead assailant tumbling off to one side. A thousand possible choices rush in a wave over the drow but first on his agenda is to stand up: he will be no use stuck on the forest floor like some prey. The heat of battle and the bloodlust in the air grants him the strength and adrenaline to grip the princeling's leathery, membranous wing and pull himself to his feet, his posture unsteady and strained as he puts weight on his bruised muscles. "Riselet!" Numb fingers fumble with the clasps on a small pouch attached to the side of his belt, finally prising it open to withdraw a vial of a dark red, syrupy liquid - he flings it in the half-elf's direction with a grunt of exertion, calling, "It's a coagulation agent— it'll help slow the bleeding." With wild eyes he turns to look for Hildegarde, struggling as Prince endeavours to put himself between the Heir and everyone else, trying to protect the more vulnerable trio while the Silver battles. Growling, Lyros shoves under his wing, drawing a dagger from its sheathe on his lower back and placing his injured hand against the wyvern's breast. He takes quick note of Hildegarde's predicament, her powerful punch that would have likely killed a living thing— but the Heir is not, and the drow is thinking quickly of some way to aid the Silver, a murmur of esoteric cantas on his lips as he runs through some of his spells, thinking, thinking for anything that might help fight the long-dead beast. Knowledge is one of his most potent weapons, after all. But he is aware that he may not be able to do much, not like this, for he would only endanger Princess' life further if he uses her blood — he casts a glance back at her and Riselet and shakes his head — no, it would have to be his own...

The Heir tried to cock his head when that icy hand pierced through his hide, but her hand and forearm didn’t allow for much movement like that. Rattling ominously like a bag of bones, the Heir edged forward: slowly and patiently, because he knows he needn’t rush. He cannot die. He does not need to avoid, he does not need to fear the wounds or the pain that never came. Edging ever forward, he is soon enveloping Hildegarde’s arm in the flesh of his throat and neck so his jaws may relinquish her arm only to snap forth and attach themselves to Hildegarde’s throat. With a gasp, the warrior went rigid yet still; little red stained bubbles of spittle resting upon her lips and giving them colour she was too abashed to wear. The Heir rattles against the flesh of her throat, as the fresh blood trickled down his throat and out the open wound uselessly. It poured over Hildegarde’s arm, poured over her other arm as it too entered the Heir’s throat. Her arms were touching before pulling apart: spreading with a steady strength to tear head from shoulder. And tear she did. But The Heir ruled his destiny, he ruled his fate: he would not die just yet. He rattled ominously again, his teeth clamping ever harder against her throat as his body thrashed; spiked tail swinging wildly in an effort to find and slam against the others.

It’s hard to swallow all this flurry of activity; Riselet feels like a deer in headlights as chaos unfolds before her. She wants to act, needs to act, but a rush of fear paralyzes her: she now understands what Lyros mentioned earlier. It’s as if a wave of malevolence hits her, rising thick in the air as the Heir and Hildegarde clash. She’s frozen in place at this instance, only to be thrown back into reality with the sound of Lyros’ voice. Her eyes focus to meet him, hands reaching for the thrown vial as if on reflex—even in a trance, somehow she can catch it without a problem. “Coagu… what? Well, whatever!” Though panicky, she manages to unwrap the wound and douse it with elixir, quickly emptying the bottle and re-wrapping the makeshift bandages. Princess will not die under her watch, she attempts to assure herself, even as her breathing becomes slower, flecks of blood escaping her throat in raspy gurgles. The once proud beast drags herself away from the fighting at Riselet’s insistence even as she wishes desperately to protect everyone; her brother, Hildegarde, the two strangers whom they’ve bonded with so deeply. Under the secluded protection of a cluster of trees just paces away from her undead sibling, Princess watches with a wary gaze, steadying her neck to keep the wound from becoming irritated. The half-elf watches as both her cloak and scarf are stained with a regal crimson. She’s conflicted in this instance—surely Princess needs protection from the wyverns’ not-so-heir apparent, yet Lyros does as well. Ultimately, the drow wins out: with a heavy heart, Riselet leaves Princess in the forest’s care, rushing to Lyros’ side. In spite of Prince’s protective wing covering the two, the halfling feels bare: some ancient sort of shadow creeps up on her, an unseen, unheard pang of terror. But is it from that great, undead beast, or is it what made the beast? She can’t decide, but shakes it off; what’s important right now is protecting Lyros. From himself, it appears—what does he think he can do with a simple dagger? And why carry one, anyways? He’s a mage, after all. “Lyros, that little knife won’t help. There’s no point right now. Unless you can use your magic from here, you’re not doing anything,” she crouches beside him, careful to steady him and bear his weight rather than using Prince as a support. If the wyvern moves the wrong way, Lyros could find himself face-first in his own vomit. “I’m not gonna let you get hurt, no matter what. If that thing comes for us, I’m taking your blows. It’s my job.”

Hildegarde made a sound that was akin to choking as the wyvern skull nibbled upon her throat, but this did not deter her from rising to her feet and stumbling forward so she could throw her body down upon that of the thrashing Heir. Pinning the wyvern to the ground, the Silver choked and purpled in her efforts to keep the wyvern still; to keep him away from Lyros and Riselet, to keep him away from Princeling and Princess. The only darkness that lurked near this nest was The Heir, but there was no need to despair: he could not fight forever.

Lyros carries two daggers, in fact - twins, they sit crossed over one another and snug against his lower back, but with a mage for an owner they rarely see use and are more for decoration and intimidation. The most Lyros really uses them for is to skin the animals he hunts. Turning the blade thoughtfully in his hand, he continues muttering the words of a long-lost language until his companion finds her place at his side. Even then, those sharp amber eyes remain pinned to Hildegarde and the Heir. Riselet's words earn her a snort and a half-hearted shrug but the drow leans into her all the same, quietly grateful for the supportive pillar she makes. He is tall and lanky, a plant grown in the dark; his weight should not be much of a hindrance to the halfling even as he sags a little too heavily against her. "It's 'Plan A.'" He waves the knife emphatically, thought he makes sure to keep it away from her face. "But..." He can see it, smell it— blood, everywhere, oozing from Hildegarde's throat and gushing out of the gaping wound in the Heir's neck, a sickening river of crimson that splatters on the ground around the tussling pair. "...It looks like 'Plan B' got a head start. As for taking blows—" The mage's voice trails off when that massive tail swings for them, but Prince has got them covered - the wyvern launches himself forward to push the spiked battering ram away, clamping his jaws fiercely around its tip and using his own bulk to try to hold it in place. "—let's hope it doesn't come to that," Lyros finishes and turns his gaze to Riselet at last, just for a second, as a perplexing emotion crosses his face, difficult to read. If anything, it is close to fear, a hint of shame lurking just below the surface. He adds in a low whisper tinged with remorse, "And...I'm sorry." Drawing a breath, he then looks back to Hildegarde, pushing his concerns from his mind...he has no time to waste with these foolish delays and insecurities. She is his bodyguard - she would find out eventually, anyway. His focus now falls to the tang of the Silver's blood, its unspoken strength and vivid colour against a backdrop of white and grey, the life it breathes in stark contrast to the undead aberration bearing down upon them. Flaming, searing, flowing like her long hair— the blood begins to shiver as Lyros' voice breathes into the area, a wave of whispers, layered mantras, and spells woven together, and all at once the forest appears to shudder when the maleficar draws the dagger's edge over his palm, spilling his own blood, and taps into the twisted art he must wield.

All the while he continues to chant, the sound there but not there, haunting and flitting on the edges of audible range, like some monstrous beast hiding just out of sight; to his casting Hildegarde's blood reacts almost instantly, little pools lifting from where they fell and forming gory bubbles. They begin to ooze their way into the Heir's body through every opening they can find, as if to bring life back into his long-dead veins, syrupy liquid trickling down familiar pathways and the dry, parched canyons of arteries. The effect is twofold, and nowhere near as wondrous as the gift of life. A rush of blood makes for the beast's head and works into the nerves and vessels behind his rotten eyes, seeking to cloud his vision with red and blind him - Lyros is not entirely certain the Heir even sees as a normal creature any more, but it's worth a shot. As he concentrates on that spell visually, eyes locked onto the wyvern's head to keep him struggling, the drow's lips craft his next spell— the scent of ozone grows as static energy builds around his body, centred on his right hand, the one with the sprained wrist and gash across its palm. Lightning sparks and arcs over his clawed fingertips, dancing across the metal of his gauntlet before Lyros aims the unholy bolt blood at the Heir, the magic let loose when his words come to an abrupt halt. The forest falls deathly silent for a brief moment as a pulse of electromantic power infused with his own tainted blood is shot towards the enemy and, upon coming into contact with the blood pooling in his cavities, causes the liquid to explode in a gruesome burst of crimson and viscera with enough force to tear through flesh. It is a horrific sight alone, and it will be made all the worse to Riselet by the sheer, awful feeling of wrong that now envelops Lyros' body, like the darkened atmosphere already hanging over this forest but somehow seems ten times worse - perhaps because this malaise circles a single, small form rather than spreading itself over a larger area.

The Heir was no normal creature, that much was true but even he could be harmed. Though he did not feel the pain, that did not mean there was naught to gain: the electricity surged through his long deceased body and zapped his muscles, his cells, everything. His teeth rattled and his body spasmed in some freakish imitation of life, the Silver clenched in his jaws beginning to spasm along with him in some morbid dance until his jaws opened up to release her. This sudden wave of life in his decrepit and twisted body caused more than just spasms and rattles: there were flashes of memory and life in that spongy material that was encased within his skull. Memories that faded away in nothingness, when the mailed fist of the knight penetrated through the roof of his open mouth and through his brain and out the top of his head. The living brain was obliterated and when the living brain was destroyed, no undead could be brought back from such a distance. The Heir shivered for a few moments longer, before slumping into stillness. Before sighing out a breath he never needed in the first place. The darkness that was The Heir had left in its wake the beaten and battered remains of the prince that never was.

Riselet attempts to protest, but Lyros seems set in his plans. What goes on behind that patched visage, the one he wears with disdain? She isn’t sure if her words have reached him, his eyes focused on the carnage unfolding in front of them. Prince snaps at the simulacra, who threatens to bleed Hildegarde dry. Her scarlet hair and the blood she spills intermingle and Riselet isn’t sure where one ends and the other begins. It’s odd to be frozen in place like this, just watching but not acting. She knows if she moves an inch she’ll worsen everything—she lacks the experience and sheer might of a real warrior, an amateur imitation whose brazenness serves to aggravate. Perhaps, in some respects, the Heir and her are the same: however, she knows that the Heir can cleave her open with one swift scourge of its tail. As Lyros begins to chant sounds of sanguine, it all comes together. The little secrets finally coalesce, grow and bloom in front of her, unfurled revealing their unified source. The strange snake oil with Laezila, the hesitance to even speak the word ‘magic’ upon his lips, his hatred for it all. Maybe those scars, too, those bits of amber and gold alighted inside his sockets: not the red of blood like most drow, but red of the sun. He reveals his overbrimming secrets to her shamefully—is that fear speckled in his eyes, or is it just her?—as the spilled blood of the Silver reanimates, seemingly a life of its own. But the life it wishes to imitate is controlling it right beside her, voice hollow and dripping maledictions with each breath. Something dark overtakes him; even for someone magic-blind such as her, it’s stifling and hot and seeks to corrupt. The air’s electric, like mother on a bad day. Like home. She is sent to the past, her head full of visceral memories that mix as the Heir is granted new life from its fiercest enemy. What does the drow hope to accomplish by this? Not granting him new life, she hopes. Yet as he continues to make new veins and capillaries out of those long gone, the halfling does not let go of Lyros. She brings him close as she can manage, afraid of losing him, as if he’ll dissipate as his spells finish. With any luck, her physical closeness can make up for the lack of words on her tongue. However, she’s inclined to scream a couple swears as an arc of lightning opens from his fingertips, sparking the blood to erupt in a rain of gore. Even when she made her day-to-day through contract killings, Riselet had never seen something so bloody in her entire life. The Heir isn’t the only one stricken, either—Hildegarde is still struggling with the undead beast and convulses as the jolt flows through her body. Ultimately, however, the saurian wins out with a blow to the brain; with his last death rattle, the Heir slumps, defeated. It’s only then that she can breathe again, a deep sigh that echoes that of the imitation’s first and final breath. “Hilde… are you okay?” Riselet’s question permeates an odd silence that had fallen over them, concerned but not to the point of rising. The drow beside her was battered as well, a malicious presence lingering over his head, coursing through his body. “And you, Lyros?”

Hildegarde’s lips were painted a ruby red, much like her throat and the front of her armour. Once The Heir had flopped lifelessly to the ground, she had remained hunched awkwardly: her left leg threatening to buckle under her own weight and the weariness she felt. As Riselet posed her question, the knight only raised a hand and made a kind of gruff rasp that was not really an answer yet was an answer all at once. The Silver eventually did drop to one knee with a clang and rattle of armour and chainmail, with an ‘oof’ from the force. She had restored The Heir to his rightful place: she has restored peace to the King’s heart. Better yet, she had protected these two, hadn’t she? Protected these two misfits, even though she found herself to be at war with the drow. “Re…port..” she commanded meekly, demanding to know their status.

Lyros watches the final act unfold so unwaveringly that he may well be in a trace, eyes half-lidded and his breathing uneven, ignorant of the light spray of blood that smatters across his cheeks in the wake of the blast— at least, until something possesses him to wipe away a trace of it from the corner of his mouth. The Silver's words ring hollow in his ears, Riselet's too, their voices far-off and muffled perhaps by that dark aura hanging over him, visible but difficult to make out, as if the drow has stolen scraps of shadow from his surroundings and they now lick along his forearms, disregarding the true position of the sun. He can feel it, the insidious serpent of that malign magic twisting through his own veins, its fangs oozing hot venom, corruption on its forked tongue. Everything is so red; the gruesome scene before him, the Heir's death throes on a canvas of blood congealing in the cold, Hildegarde kneeling, dripping, her hair drawing his eye like a moth to a flame. The push and pull of his two desires has Lyros at a standstill - there is so much colour but not enough, she has so much left, he can do more— his more rational side abhors these thoughts and knows they are not truly his own, wishing only to escape the intoxicating drug of his own magic. It is with some effort that he drags himself back to reality, surfacing with a gasp from the ocean of red and only realising, then, that Riselet is holding on tight to him as if afraid to let go. Not afraid to stay, as much, but— scared to lose him? Lyros cannot really comprehend her actions in his current state, his thoughts feeling fuzzy and indistinct, like smoke, but he thinks her presence and warmth may have helped to lead him back here. A wave of dizziness washes over the drow without warning and his already weakened body succumbs to it almost instantly; he collapses fully against the half-elf with an agonised sigh. Limbs tremble and a great shudder runs the length of his frame, almost a spasm, barely controlled as Lyros curls inward on himself like a dying spider. He shakes his head and admits in a very small voice, "I don't feel so good." The atmosphere around him is still off, but at least the shadows have returned to normal and the miasma appears to be loosening its hold on him.

Riselet takes the brunt of Lyros’ dead weight, awkwardly embracing the drow’s frame with both arms firmly clasped around his shoulders. She’s careful not to put too much pressure on his right. The two are flecked with bits of red from the visceral aftermath that Hildegarde is bathed in. What remains of the Heir is shattered bone and torn grey muscle; he is nothing now, just pieces of pieces. She’d be fascinated by it if the thought of Lyros being filled with loathing and humiliation in turn didn’t give her a knot in her stomach. This dark display, after all, was something he’d kept under lock and key ‘til now, more out of shame than anything. “I’m not sure how, but you, uh, re-killed that thing, Lyros… I promise you’ll feel better soon.” She attempts to assuage the maleficar, running her fingers through his hair and smearing away drops of dried blood on his face. She knows how, though—blood magic. That darkness hovering over him is fading, but it’s still there, waiting to take him away once again. At Hilde’s muttered comment, Riselet attempts to account for the group of five. “I’m fine, Lyros is… alright, and— Wait, Hilde, you aren’t okay,” she changes the subject mid-sentence, doing a once-over as she watches the Silver hunch over herself, struggling like Lyros is. There’s a guilt creeping up inside of her, the only one left unscathed. “We need to— you guys gotta get treated… Makeshift crap only goes so far. How far is Frostmaw from here?” Curses are all that follow, the half-elf overcome with another silent panic attack. She wants to rise, to check on the siblings and Hilde, but Lyros is heavy in her arms and she’s hesitant to let go.

Hildegarde’s sole eye gazed at the blood soaked earth for a long moment and she allowed her thoughts to drift for a time. She had bled so much in her service to Frostmaw, but… with her blood soaking into the earth, would he know? Would the most important man of her life know? Would he urge her to rise to her feet and finish what had been started or would he beckon her to lay down for a time? A sweet temptation, that was, to lay down for a while but not one she could accept. After a shuddering breath, the knight forced herself up to her feet with a groan. “Lyros… needs care. Hit earlier,” she said near breathlessly, flashing Riselet a bloody smile in some twisted effort to be reassuring. The Silver approached the slumped Lyros and near panicked Riselet with slow, lumbering footsteps. Her hands reached out as if to gently grasp the mage and pull him into her bloody embrace. “We… leave.”

Maybe he knows, heard and felt the weight of her efforts, not just today but every day since they parted. Every drop of blood spilled that hit the dirt— her own and that of her enemies, for Frostmaw. For now, the truth will remain unclear, but the slightest tremble runs through the earth beneath the group's feet, causing loose pebbles to clatter against each other among the leaves and snow. A sign? If so, perhaps it is urging Hildegarde not to fall, not here; to keep striving on through all hardships, for the Earthsinger she loves believes in her, and that they will one day meet again.

Prince, like Hildegarde, is drenched in red, his metal-toned scales shimmering beneath the mask of wet blood and making him look almost regal, like a glittering statue in the hall of a king. He too appears a little taken aback by the maleficar's magic, the explosion that painted him in this visceral mess - the wyvern shakes himself off as he passes by the trio to approach his sister, his low growls and rumbling utterances all sounds of concern for Princess' welfare. "Soon, yes..." Lyros' voice is weak and he sounds unconvinced. The hands in his hair are soothing, familiar, but they feel so distant, the touch of a ghost, a phantom of that night those few days past. His vision swims, a sense of nausea twisting in his stomach, consciousness flickering at the corners of his vision as he lingers on the verge of passing out. The reckless flight, the fall, the stress, his magic— all have taken their toll on the drow's body. "Hildegarde..." His amber gaze turns to the approaching Silver, eyelids fluttering half-shut - Lyros struggles to stay awake and fights to keep his eyes open. "In my belt, there's another vial. It will help slow the bleeding." Had he the strength, he might reach for it himself, but there is little the mage can do but hold on as he is held onto, though by this point he is not sure whether it is Hildegarde or Riselet keeping him upright. The smile he offers the knight is weak and pale, edged with remorse. "And I'm sorry...for what I did to you."

Riselet, after more than a bit of deliberation, finally concedes, slowly peeling herself away from the drow. Lyros is in her care now; the halfling nods to Hildegarde who bears a bloody grin. She hopes the Silver can pour the agent herself—out of the corner of her eye she can see a familiar figure taking slow steps towards the trio. Riselet strides towards a weary Princess, eager to see if she’s okay. She is alive, thankfully, but still severely injured; she’s watched the carnage unfold from afar, too weak and lightheaded to grasp what had happened. Riselet, careful not to aggravate her wound, wipes away the dribbles of blood that stain her jaw. Her wound has stopped bleeding, but those extra layers wrapped around her neck are now almost drowned in wyvern blood. The halfling’s shivering, but bears with it. The royal girl jerks at her touch, letting out a soft whine of pain, before unsteadily rising to her feet; she flaps her wings as to begin flight, but Riselet stops her with a gentle touch to the nose, guiding her to the rest of the group. “Don’t strain yourself,” she whispers, surprisingly calm in spite of the anxiety bubbling inside her, “you’ve been doing so well, you’re gonna rest soon.”

Hildegarde grunted as Lyros began to apologise, “Okay,” she managed to croak. “But we go, find Leone,” she urged in a voice that had become increasingly strained. If not for her Saurian heritage, that near indomitable strength and will, she would have succumbed to her wounds much sooner. The knight’s hand fumbled at his belt clumsily, grasping the vial and keeping a hold of it whilst urging the others to leave the nest; to abandon it to Nameless and his lot so they might mourn their loss properly and so that his children may recover. “Leave them be,” she croaked. Princess and Princeling needed time.

Lyros, reaching out, manages a light ruffle of Riselet's hair before she draws back and hands him over to Hildegarde's care - his arm drops away thereafter, going limp along with the rest of his body as he finally succumbs to exhaustion. Eyes close and, though he would normally attempt to keep standing on his own, stubbornly, or worry about the strain he's putting on Hildegarde by making her carry him, it all seems to be washed away by the overpowering pull of sleep. His thoughts cannot lie still, pulled out of his grasp by the current, and soon Lyros is unconscious in the Silver's arms, his breathing slow and uneven, dark circles under his eyes and blood on his face, half-masking the bruise on the side of his head beneath the red. Prince spares them a look, his gaze lingering on the drow for a few moments before he returns to taking care of his sister; in the distance a glimmer of gold is spotted in the sky, nearing the group at speed as Nameless arrives to tend to his offspring, and look once more with sorrow upon the ruined body of his first son. It is time to leave.

Riselet shoots Hildegarde a puzzled expression before spying the telltale shimmer of Nameless. “But Princess needs…” she trails off and sighs, defeated. She doesn’t know a single thing about wyvern care—what does she hope to do with Princess, anyways? They're better left in the care of their flock; in any case, it marks one less thing for her to worry about. The halfling strokes her head once more, fingers riding down the smooth ridges of her scales, ever-gleaming. As their King touches ground, Riselet allows her hand to drop, returning to Lyros’ side while giving a short bow of deference to Nameless. The drow is all but comatose in the Silver’s arms. He’s peaceful in the strangest of ways, covered in blood and marred with bruises. “Should I try to carry him?” Lyros doesn’t exactly look light, coated in metallic armor and heavy fabrics, but she can probably manage. Hildegarde isn’t it fantastic shape either. Didn’t she say something about a Leone? “Also, uh, do you know where this Leone is?”

Hildegarde held onto Lyros as he fainted, heaving him up so she might cradle his body to her chest. He was smaller compared to her, he was lighter but she was weak and she was weary. “Princess… need time,” she said gruffly, her words broken and strained. “Leone… Fort,” she answered, before setting off out of the nest. It was high time to return to the fort or the city limits, at least. To return there and find some aid. But she needed the Priestess; she needed to talk about what had occurred here and how best to tackle it. Something dark was afoot. Something evil.