RP:If All You Have Is A Hammer

From HollowWiki

Part of the Through A Glass, Darkly Arc



Summary: Talyara arrives home only to receive a knock on her door and a letter that she’s needed again for important Healer’s Guild business. Unbeknownst to her, witch hunters have gathered outside of her house, after months of stalking the witch, and are plotting to kidnap her. She leaves a note for Krice and heads out the door only to met with violence and magic that binds her own. After a struggle, Talyara is knocked unconscious and the hunters begin to flee the scene of the crime. Krice arrives only seconds too late. The warrior slaughters nearly all of Cramer’s men but three that managed to escape… Carrying Talyara away with them.


Path to the North

The wind blew something fierce in Frostmaw and Talyara feels like she was being blown off course, taking stagger steps in the deep snow. The witch wraps her cloak more tightly around her shoulders before pulling her hood up a bit more as the blustery snow swirls around her and she is forced to squint her eyes. Despite the short distance from the fort to her cottage just north of the Winterberry Garden, it takes her much longer than usual to make it back home. Taly had spent the day at the clinic where a stomach flu had taken hold and the witch was forced to deal with some very unfortunate cleaning and cranky warriors. Today was one of the rare days that she was eager to get home where she could squirrel away from the storm, cuddle up in front of the fire, and drink a hot cup of tea. Eventually, Talyara manages to stumble up the walk to Lharast Cottage and with a trembling hand unlock the door and shoulder her way inside. It’s empty save for Taylor, the black feline who dozes on the back of the oversized armchair and doesn’t bother to even look up at the arrival of the witch. Taly goes through the process of stamping the excess snow and ice off her boots and unfastening the cloak at her throat. She is just beginning to shuck off the oversized sweater she wears over her cotton shirt when there is a knock at the door. She blinks curiously towards it, and in a (surprising) moment of clarity, halts with her hand on the doorknob. “Who’s there?” she calls out tentatively. “My name is Everleigh, and I was asked to delivery a letter to Miss Talyara.”


Who would be sending her correspondence in a storm such as this!? Taly throws open the door to reveal a young girl who holds out a letter with her name clearly written on the front in feminine script. Everleigh doesn’t wait for the witch to say anything else before disappearing back into the storm, probably to get to some shelter. Taly does much of the same, closing herself back into the cottage and quickly tearing open the letter. Talyara, There has been an emergency in Gualon, an accident at the orphanage. We need all the healers here to help. Please come as soon as you can. Of course, Taly is moving before her eyes even finish reading the letter, the witch stuffing it into her back pocket before she begins tugging on her layers once more. Clearly, Emilia was calling her for some Healer’s Guild business and she had to go as soon as possible. An accident at the orphanage? She shudders at the thought and myriad of possibilities of what could have gone wrong. Talyara pauses long enough to scribble a note for Krice, leaving it on the counter so he wouldn’t worry about why she hadn’t come home after working at the clinic. Received an urgent letter from Emilia about an accident in Gualon. Hopefully I’ll be home in a few days time. -Taly Once that was done and her cloak once more secured around her shoulders, Talyara throws open the door, locking it up behind her, before heading back out into the storm with her head down.


Galath had braved the cold with stalwart determination. His uniform marked him as Nobilis within the ranks of his order, a man of pure white cloth and a golden hammer glistening on his chest. He’d not traveled to the witches home alone this bitterly cold night. Though the Magicae filled him with great unease, Cramer’s instructions had been clear. He would take three of the mages, along with a small squadron of the rank and file. Witches, while vile and loathsome creatures that were wicked and pathetic in nature, should never be underestimated. Especially not those with enough power to raise the dead, as Talyara and the other witches had done for Valrae, and wield the evil instruments that had allowed such an affront to nature.


The cottage had sat dark and empty upon arrival. “We will search for warding, Sir,” A Magicae croaked. The man was dressed only in simple robes of dark blue despite the biting cold. His age lined face was bared of all facial hair, including the top of his head and above his eyes, and was unsettling. The two men who stood behind him were identical, though one was younger and the other was a descendant of elves. They wore talismans of the hammer and sigils to negate witch magic were anointed in oil and ash on their foreheads. Galath avoided looking into their eyes as he nodded his consent, his hand gripping tight on the hilt of his sword. They advanced with three of the Acies, dressed in armor similar to his own of black and silver. The group passed slowly about the quiet cottage, Galath taking care to cover the tracks they’d leave as they went. The Magicae chanted, arms out and passing incense smoke all the while. Galath steered clear, unwilling to near even mage power, though Cramer’s workings taught it to be the only pure form of power. The waves of it pressed against him like a sickness, causing an ache to settle behind his eyes. When signs of Talyara’s arrival came, relief rolled through him. He wanted out of this cold.


By the time Talyara entered her own home, Galath was already watching with magical eyes within its walls. With the old Magicae, who had used a spell to conceal them as they waited, the knight watched her as she moved about unaware. He’d perhaps drawn the moment out longer than necessary, perversely delighted by witnessing her move about in the comfort of her own home. He’d spent months watching her. He knew her mannerisms, the way she moved and the way she spoke. He knew her sister, her friends, the animals she kept and even what tea she chose most often. Galath was nearly lost in watching her move when the knock on Talyara’s door shook him from it. He knew the Magicae had been watching his face closely, so he arranged a scowl and tensed himself for the moment to come. They waited only until she’d clicked home the lock to her door to strike. The Magicae released his cloaking magic and Galath sprung with a war cry. Instead of unsheathing his sword, the man swung with a baton, aiming for the back of her head. Behind him the Magicae chanted, working the beginnings of a magic binding spell. The group of Acies waited nervously, swords drawn and at the ready.


Talyara’s first mistake had been to not ward the cottage after it had been renovated. Sure it wasn’t a guaranteed protection but one that maybe would have helped, humming its protective energy before she fled from it without a second thought. Her second mistake was not listening to her intuition these last several months. On more than one occasion, Taly had felt a lingering stare, a presence unfamiliar and too close to be comforting. However, whenever she looked, she never caught him; whether it was because of some cloaking abilities or his stealthy nature allowing him disappear in a crowd easily, she didn’t know. The witch chalked it up to her constant state of anxiety; she had a rough past, a tumultuous year especially, so erring on the side of just over reacting, she had kept those uneasy feelings to herself. Perhaps if she told Lanara of the breaths she had felt upon her neck, or Krice of the cold, clammy feelings of dread which caused the small hairs on her arm to stand on end, none of this would have happened.


The war cry is what draws Talyara’s attention up from the ground, her green eyes growing wide and unblinking as a man rushes towards her, aiming a baton at her head. Fear and confusion hold her in place for a second too long and though she twists away from her attacker while simultaneously moving to run in the opposite direction, the baton catches her in the side of the jaw, the blunt force slicing open her lip in the process so the innocent, white ground suddenly becomes blanketed in crimson. The witch stumbles to the ground, the assault effectively dizzying her, and she unable to keep her balance in the deep snow as her eyes brim with tears. Even still, she knows she cannot stay idle. So while her left hand works in conjunction with her feet to get her standing and moving once more, her right is already working on an invocation, some magical protection from this attack. “Hail to the g-guardians of the East and West,” she sputters, blood spraying with each word. “I-I summon the p-powers o-of Air and W-Water, of c-clarity and i-intuition...I i-invoke your p-protection...” The witch is scrambling, scrambling to get away from this ambush and put some distance between them. The witch finally gets her footing, pushing herself to a stand, as she waits for a swirl of ice and wind and snow to aid her after her invocation. But nothing and no one comes. Why was her magic failing her?! “Hail to the g-guardians of the East and West!” Taly attempts again, this time a bit more ferocity in her tone.


Galath had only just begun to make his own mistakes, though he wouldn’t know that yet. He’d only profited from Talyara’s denial. It was apparent now, as his cub made an audible cracking against her face. The man grimaced then, which was the first sign of his missteps. His hesitation spanned only a matter of heartbeats, his clear blue eyes locking on the blood stained snow, but it was enough to earn the attention of a Magicae. Everything happened suddenly then. Talyara was moving, calling to her witch magic. Revulsion took its rightful place in Galath’s heart and head, leaving no room for whatever unnamed emotion had given him pause before. The Magicae’s binding spells held as the little witch stumbled through the snow. Galath advanced again, reaching to grab Taly up by her arm. “Be still!” He bellowed, fury on the cloud of breath his command released into the still winter air. He shook her then, only once but hard. “You’ll find none of your witch magic working in the presence of a Sven fearing man,” If she struggled, it would seem to have no impact on the man who held her now.


Looming over her, she would see the lines of his face. Galath was a severe man, all angles and sharpness. His eyes were heavy set and blue as lakes. His hair was ashen blond and thinning just so at the hairline. He was clean shaven, his thin lips pulled in a tight scowl, and his skin was dark. Beyond his looks, Galath carried the air of old money and entitlement, as well a fevered madness that glinted tellingly in his eyes. This was a man consumed by his faith, eaten with it, and a man who struggled against it now as he held the woman he’d stalked all these months. He could smell the coppery tang of her blood. “Finish this!” Hissed the elven Magicae, pausing in his chanting. Galath dropped Talyara then, kicking out a booted foot for good measure. “Aye,” He murmured, the look of regret crossing his face was only for the witch to see. He lifted his baton again.


Talyara watches in horror as Galath approaches, the witch taking great steps back to keep her distance from the man. "I-I summon the p-powers o-of Air and W-Water, of c-clarity and i-intuition...I i-invoke your p-protecaaaHHH!” Taly yells as the man suddenly grabs her by the arm, likely bruising her skin despite the layers she wore. Instinctively, her own hand moves to curl around his wrist, silently calling upon the element of fire, attempting to conjure up her familiar blue flames in an effort burn him and thus grant her release from his grasp. But thanks to the Magicae’s binding, none burst forth. It was then that Taly’s eyes land on the talisman Galath wore around his neck—the hammer—and her eyes widen further. This wasn’t some random assault, some violent robbery go awry, these were witch hunters and Taly was a good as dead. As Galath shakes her with enough force to make her teeth chatter she halts her chanting, Taly realizing then that they had bound her magic. Even if she was sizable to fight them physically she had no weapons and there were several of them and only one of her. It was a losing battle. “Sven fearing?” she sneers at the man who holds her in his grasp, spraying blood on his clothes with her words. “What makes you think we don’t serve the same god?! Father, Papa, Dad—all are different names for the same person. How is this any different? Would your god really approve of this violence against an innocent girl? And you believe I am the wicked one?!” Had she sensed something behind his deep blue eyes? A shift that spoke of some underlying distaste for what he was doing to her?


If she did, it was gone just as quickly as Galath throws Talyara down into the snow. She attempts to push herself up once more only to be met with his booted foot, swinging out to catch her in her side. The little witch cries out in pain, whimpering as she grabs at her ribs. If her magic was bound, Talyara would be unable to heal herself, to alleviate any of this pain. The hissing sound of “finish this” from the Magicae reaches Talyara’s tapered ears and despite the pain she is, despite the fact she knows this is losing battle, despite believing that she will never see the people she loves again, she rolls over onto her back. Taly props herself up onto her right elbow, her left hand still clutching her ribs. If these were her last moments alive, she would not give Galath and his men the satisfaction of seeing her whimper or grovel for mercy. No, she would make sure that her face haunted this witch hunter for the rest of his days. Taly locks eyes with Galath and does not wince, does not even blink, as she waits for his baton to fall.


Galath doesn’t flinch as her blood sprays his face, the white of his armor. Talyara’s words tease wickedly at the threads of doubt that wrapped painfully around his delicate, zealous belief system. It passed over his face like a dark cloud, only to be blown away with the hard lines of anger. “Shut up!” He bellowed, halting his baton to add another vicious kick to her middle. “You vile-” To emphasize, his boot pushes her back down even as she struggles to sit upright. “Evil, blasphemous witch!” He was sneering now. The men behind him were moving in agitation, the Magicae chanting fervently in effort to hold the binding. There was a moment of perverse pleasure then, as he witnessed the change come over the witch. The realization of her situation and the absolute lack of power she now held. In all his weeks of watching her, in all the time spent learning her habits and her movements, Galath had begun to struggle with his conviction. This was dangerous for a man who had cloaked his faith around himself as another form of identity. To bring an end to his doubt would be to cut it out from the source, and that was Talyara.


When he brought the baton down again, he didn’t miss. He hadn’t used enough force to kill her, but he had used enough to send Talyara into unconsciousness. The Magicae finally ceased in their tireless chanting. Galath fell to his knees in the snow beside the witch. The rest of the men moved, worked to cover the tracks they’d left in the snow and to secure the witch. Galath nearly protested as they moved her way from him, shackled chains of warded iron around her wrists and ankles. The eldest mage watched him suspiciously, his dark eyes narrowed as he questioned the Nobilis and his conviction. Cramer would undoubtedly be hearing directly from him of Galath’s poor and confusing performance. When the horses were brought around, and Talyara was made secure, the troup of witch hunters mounted and prepared to move out.


The direction from whence Krice arrived was unclear; through the haze of snow and distance, he emerged a figure of calculating precision and malice, clad in black, poised to strike. It had been mere moments before Galath's arrival that the warrior was in the cottage, looking down at the note left for him by Talyara. With the woman absent, he held no reason to linger in her empty home.


As such, Krice had departed and locked the door behind him with a key of his own, securing the cottage - but leaving it otherwise unprotected. He must not have gone far, for his return came relatively quickly, as the assault on Talyara came to its conclusion.


Crimson eyes bore ire in the direction of those who had harmed her. The smell of blood on the air, of battle in the atmosphere, compelled him ever onward. Shoulders squared and katana drawn, mind switched into homicidal efficacy, the warrior lunged at a mage's back with the intent to curl a hand around the male's throat; gripping firmly to crush the esophagus - a simultaneous yank to pull him off his feet. With luck and timing, the mage could survive, but Krice's intent was to suffocate him in a single grab - and follow up with a decisive blow of head meets snowy ground. If the mage was still breathing after that, a quick knick of Krice's katana would conclude his life. Henceforth the warrior moved onward, past the vacated horse to kill the next asshole whose life had consequently become just as expendable. The silver-haired enigma was typically calm and reserved, but threaten or harm those for whom he cared, and a cold, calculating monster took his place.


Galath and his men had made no preparation for a skilled physical attack. Witches were supposed to be weak, unable to defend themselves without the tainted magic they so willingly called forth. As such, Krice’s attack was not only successful but nearly unnoticed in their fleeing if not for the dying sounds that bubbled from the old Magicae’s lips. A knight in black and silver released a warning cry as he halted his horse. The young, largely inexperienced Acies unsheathed his sword and in a flurry of snow and mud charged his horse at the oncoming threat.


Galath felt agitation writhe underneath his skin. He’d glanced back, only once, to see the Magicae dying in the snow. It would be later, when they were away from the threat and Talyara was safely locked away, that he would be quietly grateful that the mysterious warrior had managed to end that particular mage. For now, he called orders, moving around to grip tight the reins of the horse that had carried Talyara’s unconscious body. The hunter swiftly and efficiently transferred the witch onto his own horse and dug his heels into the poor beast’s flanks to send it flying over the snow. While he made his escape, the remaining Magicae following close behind and chanting spells of aid and cloaking all the while, the remaining men moved into a defensive formation. Hunters of silver and black, no more than six, turned to guard the way Galath and the mages had fled. They unsheathed their swords, some dismounting from their horses, and charged with bellowing war cries. The young Acies who had made the first warning call and attempted the first strike would more than likely be dead or dying in the snow.


Krice had spent most days of the last several weeks at Talyara's side, clearly more than a friend given the closeness of their bodies in travel, and their general mannerisms. Right now, though, he was an entirely different animal; in place of tender affection, an accurate killing machine moved through the snow. Not many people got to see this side of the warrior. Those who did were more often than not on the wrong side of it. They didn't live long enough to marvel at his speed or precision. With his first victim dead on a patch of blood-stained snow behind him, Krice turned to face the charging horse, katana raised in preparation to strike. Though it may have looked like he was going to strike the animal, the warrior simply waited for its rider to draw near enough to bypass him when a swift-step to the left diverted him from the charge. Krice strode forward, curved steel brandished in a flurry of quick, tight arcs to slay the remaining men in singular kills - one after another. All the while, his senses were attuned to any special qualities about them--scent, markings, and any other identifying aspects that would help him protect Talyara from their future onslaughts. If he killed them all now, though, they wouldn't be able to hurt his little witch, anymore.


The warrior's attackers did not stand idly by as he killed them; they attacked with the vigour of men brainwashed by the narcissistic leaders of their ill-begotten cause, two slashing wildly at the skilled man, others more pointed but no more effective. Soon enough, seven bodies lay in the warrior's wake, their blood scattered across the white earth, freckling his flesh, horses left to run free. Krice charged in the direction of the fleeing Magicae in a swift-step that took him through the realm of normal human sight, displacing snow underfoot as a result of his vampiric speed. The warrior stopped shortly afterward, his brows furrowed at the distance. Fingers twitched around his sword, but a twitch of the wrist dismissed excess blood from the blade and he sheathed it against his back. Surrounded by death and frigid temperatures, Krice realized that under the fading signature of magic, his targets - his little witch - were gone.


For a few minutes thereafter, Krice moved briskly through the crowds of Frostmaw city, without direction at times, desperately grasping onto the tail end of that magical cloaking signature at others. In the end, his heightened senses were unable to discern the direction in which Galath and his men had escaped with Talyara. Covered in blood not his own, receiving the occasional look from passersby, and reluctant to waste time, Krice turned to retreat swiftly to the fort.