RP:I've Seen This Movie Before

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.

Ernest slammed into Hanging Corpse with his shoulder, staggering a little, then jammed the doors shut, grabbing a nearby chair and wedging it under the handles to prevent anyone from opening it from the outside. Then, as if in a panic, he started to slam shut all the curtains he could find, closing the windows, much to the dismay of whatever nearby patrons happened to observe his antics. "All I have ta say," he answered breathlessly when someone finally tugged on his sleeve to ask him what in tarnation he was on about, "is don't mix techniques y'ain't got a hunnerd percent mastery of yet." Brief pause. "Also, don't go outside. For... say two, three hours? I'm sure it'll blow over by then." Outside, a raven landed on the sill of one of the windows still open and cawed. Ernest hastily shut it.

Joan looked up from her pile of books she had spread out before her a few tables away near her spot close to the fireplace. Her table had her study material arranged on it in a neat order, leather bound journal opened near her elbow, pencil in hand, index finger hovering over a highlighted line in her study book as her small mouse familiar stood close by near Joan’s pipping hot cuppa tea. Both her gaze and her familiar’s is drawn towards Ernest as he cane in the ‘Corpse in such a manner, one brow raised in a questioning manner as they both watched him go about jamming the entrance closed and closing shutters and curtains. “I take it...you didn’t take the librarian’s advice then?” She’d ask in a polite questioning tone towards her fellow guild member.

Ernest glanced in her direction briefly. Oh yeah, she'd been there when he'd gotten the book he'd been experimenting with. He harrumphed at her. "Ain't nothin' in the book that says anything about mixin' methods. It weren't even that advanced a technique I was tryin' from th' book. I was tryin' t'learn in order." Another short pause, during which another raven could be heard cawing outside. "Book's idea was simple," he continued, worriedly looking around at the ceiling as the faint noises of birds landing atop the Corpse started to sound like a gentle rain. "Pick a minion, store a spell in the minion. You know, weave th' necromancy aroun' so that if you need to you can make the minion cast the one spell it has stored in it. Easy. A lot like makin' -my- book, but less so." The tapping began to sound against the window panes, like dozens of little beaks testing the strength of the glass. "Well, long story short, I picked the wrong spell to store in a minion, apparently the effect was contagious somehow, an' now every one of those birds eats spells. And flesh, but also spells." There was another brief pause while Ernest let the direness of his mistake sink in. "Shootin' 'em don't keep 'em down fer good, either. Tried that."

Joan spares a look of disbelief towards her fellow guild mate as she listens, her head shakes from side to side as she exhales out a heavy sigh, head lightly dipped as both hands grasp at the table before her. “I have not yet begun to study the Black Tides...I only just met Khitti, the former teacher on the subject...that might help with this...mishap of yours.” Joan said before looking in a stern manner up at Ernest, “Have you tried a fire spell on these spell eating ravens? Enchanting your crossbow bolts and sniping them down?!”

Ernest threw his hands in the air. "Consarn it, woman, they -eat spells-! Any magic on my ammo just," loudly, he snapped his fingers, "poof, gone, eaten. Bird gets stronger. Tried -unenchanted- bolts too. Lucky shots pin 'em to the wall where I can hit 'em with my book. Unlucky shots just wobble 'em a bit. Fire -does- gimme an idea, though. This place have a firepit?" Why, yes, yes it does, Ernest. Right there, the lava-lookin' goblin's head. "Perfect. If it ain't -magic- fire what kills these things, maybe I can burn their feathers off with ordinary fire. Someone get me the strongest brew in here an' a score of washcloths!" He hurried over to the hearth and started pulling out his bolts and one of his crossbows, disassembling the loading mechanism in record time. "I ain't got any magic left for t'day. You still got a spell or two in ya?" He pulled a small skeletal hand from his pocket and tossed it to Joan. "I need that animate, an' ready for my instructions. It's gonna help me shoot."

Joan snatched at the tossed small skeletal hand with ease, her mouse familiar skerries out of the way, darting up Joan’s free hand and arm to perch on her shoulder it’s little beady red eyes watching as the vampire merchant cupped her other hand over the skeletal hand, palming it in her left as she quietly chanted a incantation. An aura of magical energy glow from between her clasp hands into the item Ernest gave her, quickly it absorbs the magic animating the bones, this done the aura of magic vanished into the bones as the now animated small skeletal hand is placed before the man. “Will that do?”

Ernest was, meanwhile, ripping the washcloths into strips with his knife, soaking them in the strong drink, wrapping them around the heads of his crossbow bolts and then lighting them on fire in the firepit for them to burn like candles. "Should. C'mere, hand." Ernest held out one hand for the little crawlie hand to jump into, then, assuming it followed his orders, perched it atop his crossbow and fed it a bundle of the flaming bolts to hold onto. "Now, when I fire," he told the hand, "I'm going to pull the drawstring back again as fast as I can, and you need to load one of those bolts into the mechanism as fast as -you- can, so that I can fire again as fast as -I- can, because there's a heck of a lot of birds out there and we're all goin' ta be severely inconvenienced if they're allowed to keep spreading this effect to other creatures, get me?" Making sure he had a good collection of the fire ammo, he took a ready stance at one of the windows and aimed, prepared to shoot from the hip. "I suggest y'all duck an' cover," he said, gesturing with his free hand to the tables and, more specifically, under them. "This could get ugly. Joan? Open that window. It's the smallest one. Narrowest chokepoint. Gonna roast so many birds through there it may as well be Yule again."

Joan glances up towards the ceiling as the cawing and pecking of those ravens can be heard through the wooden roof of the tavern, a mild look of amusement set in her features as she nods her understanding as she moves towards the mention window. Pulling back the closed curtains and slowly working open the latch that Ernest closed when he came inside a short while ago. Moving to one side, she works the latch free, noting that the closest ravens had taken notice, this caused some alarm from the vampire, but she had to have faith...turning to look at the crossbowman she’d lay her hand on the window’s pane, ready to lift it at his word.

Ernest nodded when she was ready, steeling himself. "It's high noon, fellas... DRAW!" As soon as the window was lifted, the birds started to pour in--but in the same instant the cowboy opened fire with his crossbow, so many shots flying from his device it would likely seem supernatural in itself, though this wasn't the case--Ernest was merely the fastest shot he knew, and with the number of birds getting in the way he knew he couldn't miss. Were the situation a little less dependent on hitting as many birds as possible before they overwhelmed the window and pecked everyone's faces off, he'd likely have taken to a bit of showboating and -still- outshot most other archers he knew in terms of volume of fire. What happened here instead was not a demonstration of Ernest's showmanship, but his skill and professionalism. The first handful of quarrels was depleted in mere seconds, and the splashing, burning alcohol from each shot managed to catch more than one bird alight. The amount of bolts being thrown and fires being set in such a short time was enough for a brief critical mass of birds lighting up to where some of them started to set fire to -each other-, which was a brief respite but enough of one for him to grab the next stack of flaming arrows and load them into the skeletal hand that helped him load. His eyes were locked on the window, and a bird that burned was a bird he no longer paid attention to--even if it found its way inside. He'd stopped talking or quipping, instead focusing wholly on his task of setting fire to any and all birds which came through that window.

Joan did her best to slap-whap-stomp-bang at many of the ravens as she could, as well as the other patrons and bar staff inside the tavern. Never mind the pecks, claws, wing beats everyone suffered. Everyone was of a supernatural nature, so unless it was a direct eye peck or claw everyone was focused on beating off the flaming or not so flaming ravens that Ernest was shooting or flying through the partly open window. Swear words flew thick as did feathers, blood, gore, broken flaming bird bodies flew as patrons stomped on those that tried to regenerate.

Ernest lost track of time. He almost lost track of ammunition. But after an indeterminate number of seconds--minutes, fractions of an hour?--the stream started to wane, and what birds remained mobile were devoid of feathers and the ability to fly, forced instead to hop along the ground pitifully. With their ability to fly and -really- hurt people mostly neutralized--and his fire-bolts all but used up--he flicked the hand off of his hand-crossbow, spun it once and holstered it, then withdrew from his duster's inner pocket his Book. Ernest had yet to name the cursed object, but one look at it by anybody vaguely in the know about magic and its senses could tell that this object was capital-B Bad. It practically -sang- with malevolent energy. Without opening the book, Ernest held it instead in both hands like he was going to swat a spider with it, and swung it viciously at one of the nearest birds. There was a sickening crunch, but more importantly the book pulsed once with energy and the bird lay still afterward, not moving to pull itself back together. Satisfied by the result, Ernest set about him wildly with his weapon, smashing his crows left and right with the energy-devouring book that seemed to be perfectly capable of eating whatever spell had cursed the ravens into being able to eat spells. Fascinating, if the birds weren't, you know, trying to attack everyone.

Joan wrinkled up her nose as she wipes a few fingers along her right cheekbone, her fingers coated with gore, feathers, and traces of her own blood as scratches and cuts she suffered under the attack healed swiftly. Others did the same while grumbles, mutters and outright curses where heard or shot towards Ernest as he went about the tavern doing his bird squashing with his book, Joan did her best to placate everyone by ordering rounds of the most expensive bloodwine from the barkeep, letting Ernest settle his score with the crows. It be his business to pay for all the damage done to the tavern undoubtedly since he didn’t follow the librarian’s warnings.

Ernest didn't think it was his fault that the librarian's warnings had been so vague, nor the book's fault for not specifying precisely -which- spells could be loaded into an undead without causing an epidemic. Or, in this case, a Birdemic. Somehow, the situation seemed oddly familiar. Maybe it was deja vu, or maybe he'd read a similar story in one of those copper-piece novels at some point. In any case, once the birds were all right and properly smashed, he wiped the smeared gore off his book with his longcoat's sleeve--which must have been hydrophobic because the blood simply rolled right off of it--and opened it up, flipping through its pages. "I do truly appreciate y'all helpin' me out of my predicament," he drawled, trying to sound sincere--because he was--but it's possible his accent made him come off as sarcastic. "An' I do apologize fer draggin' y'all inta my mess. Good news is, I got a real good idea of what went wrong, so this party here was a one-time gig, I promise." His fingers pressed down on three or four different symbols in the book and he made a guttural noise that must have been something in Orcish. The book flared with power, unleashing some of the stored magic from all those smashed birds. In a heartbeat, the water in the gore evaporated and a breeze swept through the tavern, picking up the desiccated bits of dried blood and flesh left over and carrying them outside. Hopefully, the stone surfaces wouldn't stain too much. "Sorry 'bout th' mess," he said, flicking a couple coins at Steadmen. "Figured I could help clean up a bit 'fore I went back ta studyin'." Also figuring that his staying here to drink would not be appreciated by the others here, he tipped his hat to Joan--a silent gesture of "thanks for the help"--and slipped back out into the night.