RP:It's Your Effin Night Mare
This is a Mage's Guild RP.
Summary: Larewen is given a task by the Mage's Guild, and about half a dozen other people show up entirely by coincidence. Things go surprisingly well.
Elegant Bridge
It’s almost to coincidental to be true: horses missing from Larket’s stables - stolen maybe? Yet foul creatures similar in appearance but otherworldly and wrong seem to be appearing in the forest between the city and it’s southern neighbor, Kelay. Necromantic energies are at play, hanging thickly in the air like the blight upon the living that it is. Powerful ones at that. Something along the lines of what Lady Dragana might cook up, even - and there are certainly whispers. Not all are aware of the woman’s present incapacitation, for lack of a better word. So the rumors are filtered into the Mage’s Guild, rising to its higher ups and ultimately ending in an assignment for one of the more powerful necromancer’s present in the land. If only the necromancer had a body and her magic! Unfazed, the culprit at large strings his puppets together effortlessly, drawing upon their bound wills to begin gathering them just southwest of the Elegant Bridge. It is time. More than a dozen steeds have disappeared from Larket and its surrounding areas, with no corpses to show for it. Surrounding areas have also lost a few of their mounts, but not so much as the city to the north. In total, a score of the nightmares are gathered. Their haunting, chilling braying making the Eternal Forest seem more like the twisted one near Vailkrin than the lush, green place it has been.
The real coincidence is that Pilar was present at the bridge at all. She wasn't a powerful mage, and certainly was no necromancer, and so had not been sent by the guild. She had business in Larket, and wanted to get it done quickly. She certainly wasn't dressed for adventure, in her skirt and blouse, and yet, an adventure was on its way. She started across the bridge, only for her ears to catch the ethereal whinnying as she grew closer to the city. “What...?” She followed the sound into the woods.
Irenic blends in best he could even though he cannot recall why he is here, in his titanium armor no less and brandishing his Raven hilted great sword. Anything distinguishing about the Avian left guides in a full face hard, but may be mistaken as some abnormally tall half elf or scrawny giant. Larewen may only know it's him because of a certain connection he has with her slave. Attention drawn to the same direction as Pilar while his hand gripped around the hilt of his sword and his stance plants into the ground ready for whatever fresh hell this is. She was drawing nearer towards whatever it is and he starts after her.
Larewen isn’t visible. Not to the naked eye, not presently. The very aura that usually reveals the ghastly image of the necromancer is hardly decipherable amongst the miasma that plagues the vicinity of the gathering heard. She can feel them, though. Gods, the dark energies at play taunt her, tease her, tempt her. When she received the notice, she’d balked. In part, out of a special sort of jealousy: if anyone was going to wreak havoc between Larket and Kelay, the elf wanted to be that person. Yet she isn’t. Unfortunate. The banshee is content to remain unseen, conserving what meager amounts of energy she does have - less than half her normal strength. As she approaches the bridge, she sees Pilar’s morbid curiosity drawing her to the source of the uneasy feeling. Then, Irenic - only the necromancer does not recognize him at present. The magic that binds the avian to her resides within her body, which is currently tethered to Vailkrin’s forest. Part of her wants to let Pilar walk into an untimely death, but the other figure, the male, is an innocent. Normally, she’d let him find his own fate too but… Unnecessary casualties will easily fall back on her. So it is that the banshee deigns to materialize, quickly placing herself between the two curious beings. She is but an echo of herself, an echo of the wounds she suffered at Emrith Kohl’s hands. The gaping hole in her neck serves as an ever present reminder of the assassination attempt to those that look upon her. She lifts a translucent hand, palm towards them, in a bid to draw them to a halt.
Reginae found herself in this place under the ignorant assumption she could find Muzo in Larket. It’s the very first time she’s left Frostmaw since her attempted assassination. Disguised as a young, tall man in loose slacks with jet black hair and absolutely no shirt but a flat, chiseled abdomen. On his hips, he wore two daggers, one on each side. He was in no way expecting to run into trouble but still felt himself tugged in this direction, off the path towards Larket towards the woods. His hazel eyes scan the surroundings, no one is sight through the fog until she reaches a clearing and sniffs the air. It smells like magic...and death. Larewen appears before the two figures ahead of him and in this male body, Regi runs up to stand beside them. Reporting for duty, in some mysterious way. Oh look, Pilar. The man waves to the vampiress and doesn’t recognize Irenic in the slightest. “Lar -” She said, casually while the male body rests his hands on the loops of his loose pants. “Still rockin’ the no body thing. That’s cool.” His voice is an even, lax pitch. Smooth and confident. It wasn’t magic that held this form, but her shape shifting (considerably more difficult to detect but perhaps Lar has special eyes in that form).
Talene seemed to also fall victim to the strings fate plucked tonight. The rogue was without a conventional mount, but not too far from the bridge, obscured by thicket, she was settled upon the massive shoulders of her four-armed berserker companion, Chogall. As long as the brute stood fairly still, most passersby wouldn't notice him, or her. The echoes of whinnying didn't register as ominous initially, but the more they echoed, the more the little hairs on the back of her neck and arms began to tingle. Her one good eye peered around, adjusting her eyepatch as ears perked with their preternatural keenness. " Nah. Can't be." When Chogall started to shift from one leg to another, she'd pat his thinly covered crown, shushing him. He was no prodigy, but he understood well enough the strength of the legs that dangled around his neck. Piss off the mistress astride him, he could end up in a heap with a broken neck. Talene would give it another moment, and wait out for any more sounds of the impending nightmares.
Dyraxdiin arrives to the scene in his typical manner of travel - that of human legs carrying a steady gait. His rhythmic steps might be heard, yet the sound of the horses would drown out the noise to all but those equipped with keen ears, or those not too focused on their otherworldly call. The great wyrm is attired in his typical garb of gray half-robes and newly minted half-plate. No weapons adorn his body, save for that rather simple dagger, the one he uses for 'apples', at his hip. Astride the sky with the wings of a dragon might be a faster route to Larket, but Dyraxdiin previously found it nigh impossible to shift back to his everyday skin without some fool onlooker in the city screaming monster. So it is with this twist of fate that would have the Mage arrive at the scene to overhear the rallying cry of horses in the distance. Peculiar, he muses to himself, his blue eyes to casually take in the present company he finds himself in; whether he finds their presence peculiar or the sound in the distance, remains to be seen - a brow to raise in mild curiosity. His march comes to a halt and hands clasp behind his back, as he awaits what else the fates would yet bring.
Beyond the gathering nightmares, just out of sight, stands their master. He is aware of those that arrive, through the eyes of the whinnying horrors as the last of them find their formation. He sees the banshee, her hand held out to stop the approach of the pair, then the arrival of two others. Talene is not seen, for her vantage point is beyond what even his magical sight allows him to see. It’s perfect, honestly. As the banshee’s ghastly hand lifts in warning to Pilar and Irenic, the necromancer’s makes perfect use of her movement - it’s almost as if Larewen’s gesture is the cue upon which the creatures were waiting. In haunting unison, they rear up on their hind quarters, the cacophony of their braying increasing threefold as skeletal front legs rake the air. Sinew and muscle, half rotted and oozing, permeate the area with the stench of rotting flesh. The creatures eyes take on an ethereal glow, displaying an intelligence beyond that of simple puppets: the necromancer is inside their minds. The creatures charge forward suddenly, making to trample Pilar and Irenic; to crush Dyraxdiin. Those on the outside of the group are faster, moving beyond the trio and circling back to meet them from behind. Their master fully intends to let the ghastly woman take the blame.
Pilar stumbled to a stop as Larewen appeared before her. “L-L-Larewen...!” The name came out in a strangled gasp. Pilar turned to flee and ran right into Irenic. She bounced off his breastplate and landed on her backside in the dirt. She looked up at the young man with wide eyes that held no recognition, only panic. She scrambled to her feet and tried again to run, only to collide with Dyraxdiin and land on her bottom. Again. It was then that the charge began. The ground rumbled beneath them, the pounding of dozens of hooves sending shockwaves through the earth. Pilar shrieked, “Run!” as she stood, but it was too little too late. The horses were around them now, their choking stench filling the air. Pilar coughed. “L-Larewen!”
Irenic halts at Larewen’s command and scowls at the smell, but doesn’t dare budge until they are charging him and Pilar. “Merde,” he grunts out before grasping Pilar’s arm and pulling her up then behind him as he shifts out of the way. Once aside he kneels down with the sword out in order to clip a horse or two down at the legs. Setting Pilar off to the side enough to let her flee or get a better advantage to defend.
Larewen blinks at Reginae’s male form, at first not recognizing the woman before her brown eye reads through the shift in her form. She does not appear surprised; she knew at the coronation that the naga did not perish. Just as she opens her mouth to say something, she shudders. One of the horses is running through her, but only briefly before she is acting. That unfortunate nightmare becomes fuel for the deathsinger. Her mouth parts, an otherworldly and disembodied keening leaving her throat as she focuses what little bit of magic she’s discovered herself capable of in the past few months upon the creature that has stolen her personal space. Something about the way her mouth forms those words is… draining. Others that use magic might feel it, though to the nightmare… She has every intention of sapping it dry. Which she does. As two horses are clipped by Irenic’s blade and stumble, Larewen draws upon the magic within the one that is passing through her non-existent body. It stumbles, losing momentum as the magic holding it together begins to come undone. She wastes little time in actually making sure the creature has found rest before she’s twisting on her heel and her brown eye is seeking the source of the dark energies. A finger lifts, pointing past the last few horses of those that are trying to trample them. Without a body, the necromancer doesn’t have the same concerns as the others. “Over there. Distract him.” Her head’s turning slightly to Pilar, and for this moment alone the other’s transgressions against the would-be queen are forgiven. “You, here. I need your magic.” To bleed it, for lack of a better word. She already has a plan in mind: wrest control of the horses, then turn them against their master. That is, assuming the others will trust her enough presently to allow such a thing.
Reginae ’s shifted form chuckles at Larewen, moments before the horse runs through her. He moves back into the center of the madness, cocking his head to the side, looking on as the horses surround them. The vibrations through the ground thrills him. It’s clear on his youthful face as he licks his chapped lips. His hands dangle threatening over his daggers, though what he’s to do with them against these horrors is unclear. Had he a shirt, he could lift the collar up to block out the rancid smell. Alls well that ends well. His muscular shoulders shrug, neck popping on either side and then his body hunkers down in a fighting stance; feet wide, knees bent, hands still empty and extended as one of the night-mares charges him. Like a trick rider, the man’s slender body takes off, arms outstretched to catapult him off the ground and onto the rotted horse’s back. There’s give in the tangible presence but the beast continues riding through the miss, lost to the rest of Larewen’s pack of champions to fight for his life all alone.
Talene swears, grunting her irritation before her heels kick at Chogall's chest. " Play time, my dear." Feet find a foot hold in Chogall's battle harness as the lumbering ogre comes charging out of the thicket with the rogue on top.Thick, gummy lips part to reveal yellowed teeth, some worn while some are sharpened, bellowing a war cry with gore-splattered club aloft. The smell of rot and decay nearly curdles her stomach, quickly pulling a cloth up to her nose. Nightmares within the berserker's range would be unfortunate enough to be pummeled to bony pieces. Perhaps all the better for Larewen to regain more of her strength.
Dyraxdiin would have assisted Pilar, but the odd Swordsman beats him to it. Instead, the mage quickly weaves a spell to protect himself; hands draw from behind his back and begin to craft the arcane, swirling purple hues to trace each fingertip as he does so. As the energy coalesces, bands of arcane power form and are immediately discharged at the few horses who mean to add him as just another bump in the cobbelstone bridge. The bands careen in wild arcs towards the rotting monsters, to bring those horses quite literally to their knees - boney legs to be left behind as if simply forgotten - the sound of the collision a sickening mess of flesh and snapping bone, whilst they grind to a halt before him. He looks upon their putrid flesh, gazes into their maggot-filled eyes, and then casts his blue-eyed gaze to the figure further on. Necromancer. His Saurian senses reel at him, yearning to be free of their constricting vessel. For now, he ignores his lesser instincts. Still, the horses thrash with reckless abandon, in desperate desire to charge on, but they're quickly consumed in a gout of mage's fire and left to smolder into ash. The great wyrm looks to the others to watch their reaction, so as to respond as a collected force. Besides, there is no telling what these individuals are capable of. The crashing and rumbling of the Ogre is an afterthought - little would serve to surprise him, especially given the events of last week. Pilar would be given a reassuring look before Dyraxdiin readies himself. His composure remains easy, yet within the epicenter of a thunderhead shouts to be free.
A hiss escapes the necromancer’s pale lips as he feels first one, then two, than three of the threads binding his puppets to him snap, severed by the motley crew of individuals that have impeded upon his plan. Even as the male rides off on one, he withdraws his control of it, allowing the terrified creature to regain semblance of self-control - even if twisted by the darker magic. Reginae will have her fight cut out for her; it is not worth chasing down and his own numbers are diminishing too quickly for his comfort. This time, he steps forward eyes flashing with utter hatred and disdain for those present. He casts a hand outward, summoning what remains of his beasts toward him. Including body parts and legless torsos that have not been turned to ashes. His magic twists these pieces of dead and limbless horses together, creating a monstrosity. The ogre… is unexpected and he curses. The newly crafted beast, now flanked by its lesser cousins (is there a better term for that?) lets loose a horrid noise. Not quite a howl, not quite a growl. It is more of a tortured scream of the sort animals should not make. This hulking creature separates from the remaining dozen of undead horrors, charging directly for the ogre whose handiwork has helped to crash it. The saurian is just as inconvenient as the ogre and its rider, and so he finds himself in need of stepping in and aiding his nightmares. He will have to fight the banshee and Dyraxdiin, while continuously guiding his creations. Once more drawn together, the whinnying horses scrape the ground with their hooves and snort before they are galloping again. Half of them toward Pilar and Irenic, six more at the dragon. A spell to bind the banshee is already on his lips, for he assumes her to be little more than another undead to control. Simple enough, with the right spell.
Pilar clapped her hands over her ears as Larewen's wailing drained the horses of their magic. It made her feel sick. The next thing she knew, the banshee was demanding magic from her. She looked at her former benefactor with wide eyes, thoughts a wild jumble. Larewen couldn't be trusted, she knew Larewen couldn't be trusted, she was a monster, an evil monster, and Larewen hated her, and she wanted to make it up to Larewen so bad, but she couldn't, Larewen wouldn't allow for it, and she would be stupid to try, but she loved Larewen, she did, but she didn't trust her. At the same time, the situation was spiraling out of control. With half a dozen rotting, undead horses charging her way, Pilar shrieked. She dove out of the way of the stampede, somersaulting across the ground and coming to a stop before Larewen. She looked up nervously at the banshee. Well, Larewen, do what you must.
Irenic continued to block the onslaught from Pilar until she answered Larewen’s summon and was left to combat a handful of horses. In the back of his mind he knew it would be so much easier if he could fly, but he can leap. A jump and a kickoff from a nearby tree until he was upon the rotted fleshed spine of one of the horses and just as his sword parted easily through it’s skull he was crouched on the back of it in order to hop to the next horse. This time he sort of steers the wild undead beast into the next one causing a small pileup of mares and becomes buried among them, but not without ensuring they were not getting back up.
Larewen is reaching for Pilar’s magic when she feels the necromancer’s magic tugging at that which binds her soul to this plane, to this incorporeal form. She might even panic, were it not for the sheer fact that she has an undying faith, though not in the least bit backed, in the Shade, for its part in keeping her mobile. The puppet master’s spell is still vexing, still draining, still a nuisance and so the banshee takes a more direct approach to siphoning Pilar’s magic while Irenic dispatches the unholy steeds that seek to pummel him into the ground. Her hands cup the younger vampire’s face, almost tenderly, almost motherly, before her maw falls open impossibly wide and again, that awful keening is dredged from her ghastly throat. This time, the spell draws upon the healer’s mana, drawing it out of her body and seemingly swallowing it. With each gulping mouthful, she becomes more and more tangible, more and more capable of stronger magic - even if temporarily. Releasing Pilar, her tone shifts, taking on a more hauntingly lamentable note as she beckons the creatures away from the necromancer’s control; she tugs the puppet’s strings away from their master and snares them for herself. She reins in on those threads, pulling the half dozen meant for Dyraxdiin away from him; the creature that assaults Talene is too strong for her to control like this. And so the six nightmarish steeds turn against their own, moving toward the hulking behemoth to aid Talene’s ogre in its battle whilst the banshee looses a strained cry in the saurian’s direction. “Kill him!” The necromancer, she means.
Talene 's thigh muscles contract, doing her best to keep herself semi upright as Chogall has a hell of a time slinging his club to and fro, the ogre actually -laughing-. Even as gore and bone shards go flying before his assault, he is laughing like a child frolicking in a field. The rogue's teeth almost jar together with his enthusiastic motions, " Chogall, keep it steady! Mistress needs to try something!", grunting as she tries to pull her bow off her torso, grappling for two arrows. One to keep between her teeth, the other to nock to her crossbow's drawstring. Bracing the butt of the weapon against her right shoulder, her one remaining eye levels down the length of the weapon towards the arrowhead, but the necromancer keeps wavering out of her sight. " Chogall, hold the hell still! Brace!" It'd be easier for her to try and loose an arrow upon the necromancer if the berserker took a defensive stance instead. Chogall's mighty leg pulls behind his other, two of his four shoulders forward, the other two arms holding the club back as he waits for the behemoth to meet him and his mistress. "Just...need...one...", Talene hisses under her breath. If she or the disgused saurian can take down the necromancer before the monster reaches them, it should just fall apart with his death.
Dyraxdiin grunts at the renewed sense of vigor the horses muster at behest of their master. Simple puppets they may be, but they present a very real threat to not on himself but his serendipitous companions. A thoughtful look is given towards the Banshee Larewen, but he is quickly overwhelmed with the need to react. Mithril plate, while serving as a boon to the dragon in place of his own scales in human form, will serve him little against the weight of these undead denizens of nightmare. Thankfully, they are seemingly given a new purpose - Larewen's own. He can feel her magic overwhelm, and assuredly shatter the bonds of their previous master. In response to her command, Dyraxdiin nods his head in grim acquiesce. The cobblestones from the knee-high stone wall begin to move, like blocks to a puzzle with sentient intelligence. They suddenly jump with a start. If this Necromancer is so keen on the idea of trampling others, perhaps this would suit as a just end for him. The hewn-blocks roll forth, swept up on an errant tide of magic brought to bear. As it rolls on, they begin to take the shape of a horse all their own, complete with galloping legs; it barrels on with little more than the sound of crunching, grinding rock to indicate that this is not imagination. Just before the machination of arcane might would trample the Necromancer, it bursts into a thousand shards of gray shrapnel, the concussion of the veritable force behind its destruction meant to keep the Necromancer off balance and unable to avoid his own demise.
The necromancer wasn’t expecting to be met with so much opposition before he began his assault. When his magic is deflected by another entity entirely, unable to truly find hold in the banshee, his spell fumbles. Only the monstrosity battling the ogre is left under his control, and even then it wavers as he spots the concrete horse galloping his way. The necromancer is faced with two options: continue to fight until he dies, or to flee. At least the second of the choices provides him with an opportunity to try again. Only the creature is too close now and could easily gain on him if he doesn’t slow it down. His lips twist, calling upon another spell. From the ground beneath the stone horse, dozens of snaring hands twist upward. Bony fingers and dark tendrils of magic twist around the creature’s legs. The shadowy magic fortifies the skeletal hands, and provides the necromancer with the opportunity to retreat. When it explodes, the necromancer has little time to register anything beyond the sound of rock breaking before thousands of shards pierce his squishy flesh. He’s already working on another spell, one meant to knit the flesh back together when a particularly large piece pierces the back of his head, popping out through the socket of his left eye and dislodging it with a sickening squelch. Another pierces his lungs, a third severs his spine and comes out through his belly, crippling him. The coppery tang of blood mixes with the stench of the rotting horses, leaving the necromancer to die a slow, agonizing death. His concentration on the monstrosity slips and the creature begins to fall apart, leaving rancid flesh and brittle bone to litter the ground and the ogre bashing at thin air.
Pilar swayed after Larewen finished sucking the magic from her body. She slowly got to her feet, legs shaking, and stumbled toward the necromancer. This wasn't what she wanted. Not at all. She knelt by the man's side and snapped his neck, ending his suffering. She struggled to her feet again and headed back toward the city. ~Emielle...~ The couatl, hearing Pilar's call in her mind, met her at the city's edge. Pilar mounted the flying serpent and was soon on her way home, wondering if she did the right thing.
Irenic pulled himself free of the stench of horse corpses, still fully covered in armor and still scowling beneath it. He seriously starts to wonder why be bothers not barhopping anymore and slips the sword away, still not really knowing we he felt he needed to be here, but it was something. Silently he makes his way towards cenril for he now needs a bath for a straight week in order to get this smell out.
Larewen is moving with Pilar; in fact, she’s a little bit ahead of the stumbling vampire. Before Pilar can ease his suffering, the banshee’s cupping his face too. Unlike the gentleness with which she drained Pilar, Larewen’s hands curl inward, fingers manifesting with the sharpness of claws that dig into the man’s face. Her mouth opens again, and this time the sound that tears itself from her throat is far worse. Enough so that pity may be felt for the man as blood begins to seep from his ears; as his remaining eye bulges and then pops - but not like the other one had. It leaves a gaping crater in his head. The pain alone is so terrible that the eating of his magic by the deathsinger goes unnoticed. His mouth opens and closes with each struggling breath, but the banshee, as soon as she has finished her feast, rises and turns away - leaving him to die a slow, agonizing death. To the fallen necromancer, Pilar likely appears to him an angel of mercy and not the harbinger of death that the banshee had. With his neck snapped, his head falls loosely to the side, the chasms of his eyes staring grotesquely toward those that ended him. Larewen’s voice, once more that disembodied and haunting tone that is more familiar, begins to sing once more. It is gentler, but no less eerie as she twists the binding of the six remaining horses. They turn as a unit, as if bearing unseen soldiers, and begin an eastward march toward Vailkrin, toward their new home. It’s only then that Larewen watches the departing, armor-clad man. Like Irenic, she feels a strange pulling, a familiarity that is without reason; in this state, she is unaware of her own magic embedded in him; of the eye within his left socket that is the twin to her own right one. Instead, dual colored eyes move to the ogre and it’s rider, startled to see Talene present. For a moment, she wonders exactly how much creeping the Nasar daughter does around her before her gaze sweeps toward Dyraxdiin. “Tell Brenwyn it is done. Larket and Kelay are safe.” For now, anyway.
Talene will leave Larewen to wonder how much she does of anything, creeping or not. If the would-be queen had any solid idea of how long she's around in any given location, then she's not doing her job right.
Dyraxdiin watches, undisturbed, the mangling of the Necromancer, and the subsequent draining of his magical essence at the hands of Larewen. He has seen such a thing happen countless times - on both sides of the Saurian Wars. Many men were drained of their lifeforce, and many dragons too. It's a relic from a time more familiar to him than the bridge beneath his feet or the city of Triton (Larket) before him. He looks to the people gathered, a weary look of thanks, until his eyes meet Larewen. "I will notify him that the situation has been remedied." The undead horses are given a look as well - just what is she planning to use those for? He mentally shrugs it off, and continues his way towards Larket.
Talene watches Larewen with her one good eye, for just a moment, before dipping her head in a brief nod. The crossbow was slung over her shoulder, the remaining arrow returned to her hidden quiver after the one previously nocked. A pat to Chogall's head was his signal to turn around and start lumbering towards the west. "Lets get some rest, my dear." That was enough excitement for her for a night. Time to try and get that horrid smell out of her nose.