RP:Liberation Ch5; Securing the Clinic

From HollowWiki

Part of the Liberation of Rynvale Arc


LOCATION: Rynvale, The Imperial Arena

A breath-taking scene unfolds as you walk into this arena that has been designed, funded, and completed by the Empire of Archomsia for its citizens. Standing nearly one hundred feet tall, this oval-shaped, sand-filled, glorious battlefield is truly a spectacle to behold. Citizens from the Empire and other areas are converging into the seats, a few stairwells open for people to walk up and sit. Perhaps another scene is about to play out in this place as depicted on the statue outside, or perhaps it is something entirely different. Only one thing is for certain, you would prefer to find an open seat than be an entertainer in this place, especially as you look upon the spiked-walls, netting overhead, pikes that line the tops of the walls separating spectators from the unfortunates, and the exquisite grandstand that houses a pair of thrones, presumably for the royal family and others of importance.


Keturah :: The faint glow of orange beneath the light of Hollow's twin moons marked the grim sight that had become the Imperial Arena. Torchlight formed moving shadows against the stone wall that formed the arena, an area that had kept a deep silence surrounding it since the disappearance of the emperor; a skeleton of its former glorious self, if it could have been called such. Diligently, a scant few guards remained, prowling through the hallways within and about the outside with nothing short of boredom etched into their faces, waiting for orders that would never come. Past the stone gate and through the corridors hid the barracks that housed the gladiators. The Empire's prized slaves, restless brawlers held captive far too long in what had become nothing short of a prison. A risky business it would be, to free them, but they could prove to be wonderful allies amidst the battles that would take place that eve. Keturah halted outside the arena, running her tongue over her chapped upper lip. Nostrils flared, taking in the unfamiliar scents that hovered about as she sorted them inwardly. "Ah.." She breathed, the dangling hand along her side moving to still the tinkling from within her satchel. Furrowing her brows, the druidess turned around, passing a restless gaze over the two Round Guards. With a cant of her head in the direction of the structure, the lycaness offered a grim smile before she began her low whispers of a spell. The air, already thick with moisture lent from the sea, steadily began to grow into a mist at the druid's call. In moments that stretched an eternity for the diminutive woman a thick blanket of fog wrapped its way around area to provide cover, and slowly, the arena swam from view. She cut herself off, lips twisting into a crooked grin. "Shall we?"

Jack followed along closely to Keturah, his booted steps making only the occasional click upon the path. The moons were high, the orange glow glistening down and filtering through the mild cloud cover. It gave a rather odd and eeiry cast to everything, the hue reflecting upon Jack's pallid skin, though causing little the crimson locks adorning his head. A deep intake of air would clear his thoughts, as they would at last stop. Jack did not question, though a stray glance would be shot towards Drael, as Keturah began to weave her spell, the syllables permeating the relative silence with whispers of sound that lingered a moment before dissipating. It would be a moment later that he would note what was going on, the moisture in the air increasing and thickening into the fine mist that lay about. A grin would come to at Keturah's words, "Aye, I believe it would be fitting." With a skip in his step almost, Jack would begin to make his way forward, his right hand on his blade, and his senses scattered to avoid any guards that might be around.

Drael is Keturah’s silent shadow; his steps a perfect reflection of the opposites, his movements in accordance to the Round Member’s. On the female’s heels, the Warder squints his eyes against the flickering torchlight that looms up all about, casting dancing shadows across his youthful features. Those features, as stoic as ever, denotes to what the man truly is—a soldier, a Warder. His step is filled with vigor, each measured, each calm. The air of serenity that seems to follow the brash youth like an aura, is again, wrapped about him, perhaps to infect those he travels with—forever to calm their nerves that may or may not be on edge for the battle soon to come. Left hand rests languidly ‘pon the pommel of his sword, alert, yet relaxed. The Human’s finely tuned senses are constantly shifting from one thing to the next, to study it, scrutinize it, and mentally toss it aside as nothing of interest. Once the Round Member pulls to an abrupt stop, he is quick to do likewise, for he would have bumped right into the female with all his force behind a step, a stony Sentinel of the woman, he would surely have knocked her over. Yet, this does not happen, for he stops with her, nearly aware of her halting before she even began to. The spell, the mist, is completely ignored by the Warder, not a question prodded in her direction, nor a confused look—he knew better than to question. His glance in turn, shifts to fixate on the opposite Round Guard, before those violently color-clashed eyes of grays and blacks, slide back to the front; the Guards step picking up in correspondence to Keturah’s. A wraith floating through the air, not to disturb even the very surface he gains in his stride, as silent as a ghost, he is.

Keturah shivered, only half in anticipation. The mist, though decent cover slowly worked its way into dampening her clothing, leaving a fine spray across the exposed flesh of her face to blend the perspiration that rose there. She could hear them. The faint clicks and clattering of armor and weapons echoed noisily through the cold stone of the walls, reaching lycan ears with all the volume as if she had been standing there alongside them. Surrounded by sailor's superstition and the rumors of a possible invasion from the sewers, the guards had been on edge already. The sudden appearance of a ghost mist had only increased their fears, it seemed. She could even hear the terse whispers from the soldiers of ghost tales, assurances that it was odd weather, orders for a pair to stand guard outside the entrance, and friendly attacks against one another's pride for any trace of anxiety shown. Footsteps never faltered, and she managed at least, to keep steady pace with Jack; Drael she could sense at her heels. Her fingers tensed and curled achingly toward the dagger at her side, eyes reflecting a dim glow. Biting against her bottom lip, the druidess picked her way forward, sparing a single glance over her shoulder to her Warder. Keturah smiled, if faintly so. At the sound of footsteps approaching through the curtain, the petite woman's head swiveled in his direction. The man had been sent out into the mists as a scout, and gripping tightly against the pommel of his blade, the armored sentinel did just as he was ordered. The Round member could see him, a thick black shade amongst the fog, and he saw them. The imperial shouted his alarm. She ran for him, knees colliding hard against the armored chest. The strength endowed by her curse brought them both to the ground with a horrific thud and clashing of armored plate against armored plate. He released a strangled cry, fist cuffing her temple whilst he writhed to turn over atop her. With a low growl, her palm wrapped about his mouth. The blade was drawn from her side. In a flash, she could not see her dagger's blade anymore. It had already gone in. Aside from the first jerking motion to procure the curved steel from its resting place in the male's jaw, the woman's movements to right herself into a standing position again were all but fluid. It was unfortunate; if the guards still lurking within the walls of the arena had not been alerted by his initial calls, they were certainly scurrying about after his death cry. "Do not think badly of me~." She told her Guard- if he was still within hearing distance- before racing toward the arena.

Jack bounded forward, one foot slapping the stone floor after the other. His gaze had narrowed, a grimace appearing with the sight of the scout that was sent out. His hand flicked down to his waist, digits flaring out in preparation to grab a dagger. Unexpectedly for Jack, Keturah veered off, taking the guard down quickly, and tumbling a moment before at last silencing him. He thought, for a brief moment, to give her aid; He then remembered that Drael was essentially her shadow, and that she was also quite capable of handling herself. Deep chestnut orbs would flick about, scanning the mist for signs of the guards. He knew they would come...they must. On queue almost, two guards would appear, a look of fright mixed with intent crossing their faces as they answered their friend's death call. This quickly turned to anger, which seethed into rage as Jack's silhouette would appear. His senses more finely attuned than theirs, Jack was able to be a few steps ahead of them. Speed and surprise were some of his best weapons, and he intended to use them as such. Crouching low, his feet carried him forward in bursts that seemed inhuman. The poor lighting of the misted area would only further the effect, Jack seeming a blur of crimson as the release of sinew pushed and propelled him forward. His flared digits would tighten about a dagger, his left hand instantly following suit with a twin dagger. The hiss of metal releasing permeated the air, silence seeming to ensue for a moment as the ringing was all that seemed audible. Two clinks would segment the silence, one heard and then another a moment later. The two blades having been tossed where they would, the first embedded itself into the lower part of one of the guard's helmet just shy of piercing the metal and into his neck; the second hit a moment later, the second guard turning his head quickly to see what had happened to the first, leaving the blade to dig into the helmet by his ear. Each guard was left with a sense of relief, and a sense of fear as they would turn back around. Death, it had seemed, had spared them. This was not the case. Their respective gazes turned his way, and Jack had already set into action. Powerful legs pushed forward, releasing into a massive leap. Right hand extended, his open palm would find the butt of the first dagger, pushing it through and into the mans neck--the momentum more than great enough to force the guard to the ground. Blood would spurt, the man's gargle of death ending before it could begin. Jack landed in a roll, his momentum having carried him so, but he was instantly upon his feet and moving towards the second guard. Stumbling in frantic exaggerate, the guard unsheathed his blade, making a vertical arc towards the oncoming Jack. A feat of nimbleness was easily made, dodging to the left while dropping to his hands. The muscles pushed, his feet would spring up, and one hand would make a heavy hit to the guard’s head--dead on the dagger embedded there. The effect was quite gruesome, the blade piercing his ear and into his brain. Death was near immediate, but a scream was quickly released before the helmet caved with the force, his body crashing to the ground. A moment would be taken to pull the two weapons from the men in which they were stuck, before a glance was spared to the two with him. A nod would be given, and he would make his way further with them close by.

Drael spurs into a speedy run, following in the wake of the Round Member, Keturah. His fear for her safety was minimal, for one person didn’t stand a chance against her—of that he was sure. Still, the youth could not help but feel a sense of over-protectiveness overwhelm him and in essence, draw him on to follow in a dead run with her. Nearly the moment he comes to a skidding stop, the Imperial is on the ground, dead. Heavy breathes are issued from his lungs from the short burst of a strenuous run, only to coil up and mingle with the cold mist all about—a glossy sheen of the fog already covering his face. Those intense gray eyes of his move on from the corpse beneath Keturah to survey ahead, only to find two more of the Imperial guards charging into battle with Jack. Member’s of the Round Guard could handle themselves, he knew, therefore resulting in a critical eye moving farther out to study the dark shadows looming about all about the trio, as if some giant dark foreboding wraith, come to consume all; many a thing could hide within those inky black shadows. Speaking of a wraith, Drael nearly vanishes from sight, slinking into the murky unknown—his silhouette a hard thing to spot, but it is still there, nonetheless—moving from shadow to shadow. With the hiss of his long sword being welcomed into the misty air, he brings it down in a terrible arc, silencing an attempted cry for help, just short of the breath being expelled from the Imperial archer’s mouth. The body falls lifeless to the floor, in two pieces, rather than one; Drael cut the man down through sinew, bone, organs, and spine alike at mid-chest. The white glow of the Human juggernaut’s sword is probably the only thing giving him away, perhaps to look like a good spirit come to lead this small company on into the night. A grunt in signal, the youth issues from his lungs, allowing the others to know that there isn’t any more threats nearby, and it was time to move—quick. Materializing from those shadows he had been in, the sword is quickly slid home to its plain scabbard, the brash Swordsman falling in behind Keturah, “Next time wait for my signal, Keturah,” Those being the only words he offers in a return response to her worry of him thinking badly of her; his voice is still that usual serene and almost unsettlingly smooth quality.

Leigh:: By now, the air was heavy with not only the salty scent of the rolling fog, but also the coppery odor of blood. That coupled with the shrill screams of the dying and lack of visibility sent the remaining guards into a frenzy. Orders were being barked authoritatively by superior officers while brash, new recruits boldly ventured into the thick mists to scout the danger. Somewhere in the fog a bell begins to ring to sound the alarm. If any guards were oblivious to the attack before, they were on full alert now and rushed to receive orders from the higher ups. Of course, even at full awareness, the guard was thin and fewer than twenty men and women were all that stood between the invaders and their goal. These guards would not abandon their duties, no matter the cost, but they were also completely unaware of what brought on this attack. Not knowing the purpose for this assault made it difficult to know what was at stake and the confusion brought on by the conjured fog was amplified by the lack of information regarding the enemy. So, unsure of what needed protecting, the guards were forced to split up again instead of remaining in one effective unit. Given no alternative they divided into three smaller groups; two teams of six and one of five. The scouts that had wandered into the fog on their own had yet to return, causing further angst amongst the remaining defense. Each guard wrestled with their own fears as the three units separated to patrol the hallways of the arena. Whoever they happened upon inside these walls would likely be attacked first and questioned later. This assembly of soldiers, some soft from long periods of inactivity and others inexperienced recruits, was all that the Imperial Arena currently had to offer as a defense. It was hoped, however, that the bell, which was still being manned by two recruits, would bring in reinforcements and alert the island to the attack at the same time.

Keturah's head was reeling from the blow, and only momentarily did the druidess falter in her step. Straightening, she turned her then yellowed gaze toward the structure ahead, nostrils dilating. The nauseatingly thick scent of blood chocking the steamy air had done well to obstruct her from deciphering the quick approaching scents of the imperial units. Twirling the dagger once in her palm, the lycaness cranked her head toward the approaching shapes in the fog, watching silently as they were quickly dispatched by the red-haired guard. There certainly seemed to be a lot of soldiers in the place, she noted, wrinkling her nose. Worse still, was the clanging. "Jack," she glanced toward him before jerking her head in the direction of that terribly loud bell. "That needs to be stopped. Quickly." She nodded then, pace quickening. Running her tongue over her lips, the Round glanced back toward her Warder. "You and I will gather the reinforcements, yes? I'm sure they're wanting free of their bars." Without awaiting his response the lycaness hurried forward through the fog, through the arena's entrance. Only once she had slid to a skidding stop that nearly landed her against the wall did the druidess allow her gaze to flicker down the stone hallways; hearing footsteps in either direction. Quite expecting Drael to have followed on her heels, the woman nodded toward her hallway of choice. There they would meet the team of guards, and without the mists providing cover, the Fold members were quite visible. Her hand dropped to the satchel at her side producing a singular glass orb from amidst its contents. Bringing the dirt-filled container to her lips, the woman gave a short whisper before hurtling it toward the feet of the charging soliders. It shattered upon its first bounce against the floor, dirt and seedlings scattering throughout the crevices of the hallway. The moment they had taken root, a writhing mass of thorn covered vines snaked their way from the earth, breaking through the floor to weave around the bodies of the guards. A few of them had managed to reach their weapons before the vines restrained their arms, steel slashing through the tendrils easily despite the relentlessness of the growth. Without missing a beat, Keturah's bloodied thumb and forefinger fled to her lips aiding in producing a shrill whistle. At her call those soldiers still trapped found the vines increasing in their fury, winding ever tighter about throats and limbs alike to choke the life from them.

Drael nods a farewell to Jack, before starting off after the quickly disappearing form of Keturah. Running in the constricting corridors of the arena building was a dangerous thing to do, he knew, yet he was not about to suggest that to his Charge. Still on her heels when she nearly crashes into the wall, he drives his feet hard against the stony floor, barely able to keep from toppling over and slamming into her. “Watch your-” He stops, those arresting gray eyes of his quick to slide down the hallway, only to fixate on a group of Imperial soldiers. Keturah, thankfully, is quick to finish them with those writhing vines, grown from nothing, it would seem. Continuing on, he slinks past the fallen soldiers and their assailants, only to pick up the pace of running once more. However, he does not run nearly as fast as he did before, keeping it to a slow trot; he didn’t want to be taken unawares again. Minutes drag by without a single confrontation, weaving his way through the corridors of the arena. Coming ‘pon a door barred shut, he lifts his foot and slams it into the thing without losing any momentum, rocking its very frame. The door gives in with an audible ‘crack’, swinging ajar on half broken hinges to allow further passage. Nearly stumbling into the room, the Juggernaut Human frees his sword with an effortless movement, prepared for whatever may be inside. The jail guards. Without a second thought, he drives his sword into the gut of a completely surprised Imperial, only to tear it free and block a hopeful swing of the second’s crescent axe. Parrying with a quick shove of his brand, he sweeps the sword about in a half-circular motion, to drag the hissing white blade up the front of his foe in a diagonal slash. Gore is spilled all over the uneven ground and some left to sizzle on that wicked long sword. The Warder loots the fallen guards for their keys, quickly to toss the second set to Keturah. Without another look around, he instantly moves to the cell doors, springing each lock in turn with a ‘twang’ of steel clicking. Having unlocked the cells on his side of the room, he stands tall, feet locked in a steadfast pose, brandishing his weapon held so in his right hand. He waits for Keturah who might have something to say to these bloodthirsty gladiators. Intense gray eyes shift to find her.

Leigh:: The unfortunate group of guards, a team of six, engaged by Keturah had little life left in them by the time their fellow Archmosian loyalists came across their struggling forms. Some had already gone limp; the life crushed out of them by the thorny vines, while others seemed to lazily cut at the unforgiving growth as their energy drained away. Five pairs of eyes stared at the scene in horror and five jaws fell open in a gasp of terror. The smaller group turned in upon itself; careful to avoid any lingering vines, they began discussing the next course of action. Two of them stressed the importance of their lives and begged the other three to give up this futile effort and flee with them. “I’ll kill you myself if you try to run away, you damn cowards. The Empire may fall, but it will -not- be because we fled the fight with our tails between our legs,” said one of the more determined teammates. From the look in his eyes, he meant every word of it and there was none in the group willing to challenge that intensity. The two men who wanted to run away sealed their lips and kept any further comments and concerns to themselves. There was no leaving this fight, not for them. “We will try to meet up with the other group. If the enemy came this way then it is possible they were heading for the confined gladiators. With the other group, we’ll be eleven strong at least. Let’s go.” That said, the trembling guards backtracked, hoping to run into their comrades before the enemy had a chance to free the gladiators. Unfortunately, the plan was flawed. The other team had been whittled down to three. They had discussed their options in a similar manner and three guards chose to escape with their lives. Not only that, but the gladiators were already in the process of being freed and a mere nine guards could not hope to keep order when the enemy had strengthened its numbers. But, as the team of six met up with the team of three, they had no way of knowing that their months of cruel behavior, pestering and torturing the caged gladiators, was going see that they met a rather grisly end. There were men in those cells that had endured severe mistreatment and others that had reverted to a primal state after being treated like animals for so long. They would be unpredictable, but they would have one goal in mind. Revenge. Perhaps that is why the remaining guards found the idea of their hostages being freed so terrifying. It is one thing to torture and mistreat caged men and quite another to try and fight off a horde of those men, thirsty for justice. With that in mind, the small team of nine guards raced through the halls, hoping they would reach the enemy before they had a chance to release the prisoners.

Keturah could hardly help but to keep her hand close to the bag at her side. It was not as if she did not remember the warning that releasing the gladiators might be dangerous. She followed closely behind Drael as they made their way to the prisoners' hold, following on his heels like a chick only to stop a few paces behind him at the door way. The sudden scene of gore against the guard's stationed there hardly caused the druidess to bat and eye, and soundlessly, she held cupped hands out to catch the keys that had been tossed to her. Her focus was divided again. Even as the druidess stepped toward the cages on the opposite end of the room to unlock the doors, keen ears trained for the sounds outside. The bell's ringing had been cut short, she noted, scraping her teeth across her bottom lip. Jack had done well. Yet she could still hear the soldiers' footsteps echoing down the halls. How many pairs of feet remained, she could hardly determine. Time was short though, that much the lycaness knew. With an angry creak the door to the cell she had been so absently been wriggling her key into swung open, and Keturah stepped back. She continued at a quicker pace, springing locks with fever until she had finally made it to the end. Amber gaze flickered toward Drael before she realized the expectant look he was giving her. A dark brow furrowed, nostrils dilating. The soldiers were drawing ever closer, close enough that she could smell them over the blood. One hand fell to the dagger at her side, and with a shallow inhale she spoke. "The empire will fall before morning breaks, no?" The words were simple enough, perhaps too simple, and shaking her head, the druidess motioned toward the doorway. "Bashing the skulls of the Imperials together must be long overdue for you." The key she had previously held was dropped to the ground, and the druidess stepped back from the doorway so as to allow them passage. "Chal. You aren't getting any freer than this." There was hardly time for the hushed debate that raged through the bars of the cells, though a few of the men had hardly waited before slipping from the innards of their cages to turn their maddened stares on the duo. Anxious, the woman's worried gaze shifted toward the doorway. The Imperials arrived not long after, expressions mixed between shock and horror to find that the gladiators had been freed. Whatever worries the druidess held for the gladiators' hesitation was quickly cut short. It had taken only the sight of their captors for the slaves to rile, thirst for vengeance evident upon their faces. Twenty enslaved men, battle hardened and scarred rushed through the doors of their cells; proving the opening the iron doorway allotted to be far too small for the clot their writhing bodies formed. Keturah's grip on her dagger grew tighter still, and she pressed her back against the wall so as to keep out of the way. Those among the slaves that had been first to leave the bars were also the first to charge the newly arrived soldiers. Weapon or no, the men were more than ready to tear into the others. The only problem now would be working their way past the constricted and battle consumed hallways to meet up with Jack again and proceed to the clinic. Only briefly did her stare return to the Guard at the opposite side of the room, and she bit her lip.

Drael stands aside, as the fowl smelling gladiators emerge from their cells, watching as they swarm the only entrance and exit, intent on spilling the blood of those Imperials lurking just beyond. Faint cries of battle only register in the back of his mind, as his intense gaze fixates on Keturah, whom he watches for a few moments. Obviously, he is going to wait until the cries die down, so as to be allowed passage through the door and on the heels of the charging men. Just then, he turns his head to look at the sweaty, scar ridden backs of those men. “Gold awaits any who survive this night! Gold to those that side with The Fold! Cut them down!” He wails, his voice far over-bearing the sounds of the skirmishes just beyond his position. With his words, a cheer goes up from the men, their morale lifted due to being freed and the promise of gold. The sound of Drael freeing his sword from the scabbard at his hip, is drowned out by the din of battle, as his joins it. Rushing in, he cleaves down an Imperial that had managed to make it through the wave of gladiators, only to find the Sentinel barring his passage and sending him to the afterlife. || Just then, something terrible happens. Oh yes, something terrible indeed. The floor begins to vibrate, sending a ruckus of waves to crack the walls, and cause dust to shower the vicinity. The cell doors moan with pure displeasure, at the dark foreboding of such an event. Before all seems lost to these horrendous quakes, everything ceases, even the gladiators are left to puzzle out what had just happened, peering about at each other with concerned looks. The screams of the underworld begin to be let loose ‘pon the people here, terrible screams of death, agony, and torture. A wicked, mocking laughter echoes about, joining the screams. Until they both, are cut short. Then it happens. A Drow, within the ranks of those burly men, draws a weapon from the very void, tearing it free from the clutches of the underworld. Cayl, reigning champion of the Archmosian Arena, rushes the Imperials like a shadow, weaving this way and that, mercilessly cutting down the guards all about, never a weapon to strike true to his form. Death upon their ranks, he prods on, never to waste a single moment or effort of his burning brand. The grisly weapon looks akin to an inky black flame, perhaps even to cause whispers of fear to fall back through the few remaining Imperials. Having been a prisoner, he could not unleash his weapon until out of his cell--now he is free and fights with the fury to match any of those here to witness such an act of violence. With one last surge of attackers, they break through the tight-knit knot of Imperials, cleaving the last one standing as effortlessly as the rest. A few gladiators lie limp against the cold floor, or slumped against the walls. Still, there are enough to continue on, following in the wake of Cayl. “Head to the Clinic and bring them down, Drow!” Drael yells from behind the group, only to quickly sheathe his brand once more. The Warder pauses with all his actions, listening to his link to the rest of the Clan. “Keturah, we must be off, Arien needs help!” To the Mansion, Drael sets his march, brisk in nature, though it is. In fact, he is almost dashing down the halls! “Jack, meet up with the gladiators, and lead them to the Clinic. Keturah and I will go help Lady Arien!” Drael voices via the clan link, to echo in the minds of his comrades. Jaw set firmly, he rushes on, in the direction of where he believes the Mansion is located.

Keturah kept her body pressed against the wall, fingers coiling painfully about the hilt of her blade. Earth toned eyes remained fixed upon the writhing mass of bodies that had become the gladiators and the guards they so tore into, only to be drawn to the singular, terrifying drow among them. Yet it was the link she was giving her attention to, the calls over the clan's link. Eyes flickered toward her warder, brow furrowing with cold worry before she darted after him. "How is she injured?" Came her own call over the link as she ran. Awkwardly, she jammed her dagger back to its place at her side, wiped the blood as well as she could off of her hands, and prepared herself for whatever waited at the governor's mansion.

In the darkness, chaos reigned. From the south and west in the direction of the Harbor, the sound of pounding cannon fire rang forth into the night, and an odd glow was seen to momentarily light up the velvet blackness that enfolded the scene that had erupted at the Arena. From the west and to the north, the enraged bellow of a dragon’s war cry shattered what little pretension to peace was left. Port Rynvale was being shaken out of its slumber by war. Deprived of current imperial fodder, the battle crazed and frustrated gladiators were only too happy to comply with the rallying cry that directed the unleashing of punishment upon the imperial foe. The allied forces might consider themselves fortunate indeed, that the arena Champion had proven himself willing to take direction-for the right price of course- as Jack, on his own, might have found it perhaps more difficult to impose his will upon the collective horde. The medical clinic of the island was not at all far from what had once been this Imperial centerpiece of brute strength and bloody entertainment. It was but a short march south and east, through a small town square in which befuddled citizens were now astir, wakened by the sounds and scents of revolution in the air, before the objective was reached. Little resistance was met along the way, what imperial forces remained having been drawn in the directions of the various, more intense battles that had blossomed around the island and at targets that were of more value to the Imperial remnant to secure. Upon reaching their objective, the gladiators formed a defensive perimeter around the clinic, having recieved orders from Jack to hold the line in the face of possible attempts to loot and pillage the facility on a night such as this, during which much blood would be shed. The facility would be needed secure as a field hospital in the coming hours, and the allies could ill afford to find it depleted of resources. The bolder of the civilians milling about, especially those of High Elvin blood, were quick to lay hold of what was happening-though not of whom the source of their liberation might be. Memory had not faded. Losses sustained in initial imperial invasion lived again, as did the remembrance of the barbarism and insanity of the Time Lord and the current frustrations of living now under the thumb of an absentee ruler in a city in which governance and the provision of civil services were beginning to fall apart. Surely, life with the conquerors could not be as bad as the status quo! From within the shelter of homes, elves and humans poured into the streets and skirmishes evolved; neighbor against neighbor in some cases, as individuals took sides in the ensuing melee while the identity of the invading party remained uncertain. Slowly, powerfully, started by the lone Fold officer in the heart of the skirmishes, the battle cry was heralded and took hold. “For the King and Queen! For Liberty! For Rynvale!..” With increased clarity, came renewed purpose. The invasion force fought for the Old Order, and armed with that knowledge, the people spilled out into the night to carry to torch of revolution to those corners of the island that might somehow, inexplicably be yet unaware of the night’s events.

As the hue and cry receded from the area immediately around the medical facility, it might be noted that the number of gladiators standing guard had been depleted, the temptations of freedom more alluring than any promise of gold in the moment-as was the promise of imperial blood to be spilled elsewhere before sunrise. More than enough remained however, stalwart and watchful, under Jack’s command, for it to be safe to assume that this objective, at least, on a night fraught with opportunity for failure or loss, had been accomplished. The clinic was secured.