RP:Numbers and Other Such Nonsense

Part of the Welcome To The End of Eras Arc

Summary: Sometimes, politics involves getting your hands dirty.

Vailkrin Council Room

Kasyr strides into his office with a look that can only be described as frustrated. Every time a bit of progress was made, where some semblance of -steps- forward could be taken. They were reduced to ashes slipping away between his fingers. A bitter mirage of hope- which distorted the nearer he got, availing to nothing. He needed a drink, but he knew nothing would suffice- that precious poison no longer able to numb the bitter reality that consumed the city moment by moment.

And yet, his very position requires that he practice restraint- pretend to be the immovable pillar the city needed, to hold it all together, despite the petty political maneuverings. A position that always felt so lonely, save- His head tilts back to one of the guards posted in the hallway, and he forces his voice to adopt a commanding tone, "Find the Lady Inks- tell her She's summoned, s'il te plait. I want her expertise on the matters at hand." It's more that he needed her for all of this.

Iintahquohae turned one of the castle's spare rooms into a crowded mess of an office, made even more crowded by the mix of gargoyles, her shop employees, and various misplaced Torrador vampires that she was delegating to. Maude the spy-maid is there too, because Inks liked her. The office had an unnecessary amount of maps of Vailkrin either affixed to walls or rolled out on her desk for note-taking and marking out different areas to focus on. The seamstress tried to make it make sense with different colors of ink, but that idea was quickly dashed to save everyone else time. She'd almost look serious if it weren't for half of one of the lavender-lemon scones Valrae sent with her letter hanging out of her mouth when she's summoned by one of Kasyr's guards. Before leaving her group behind to take over, she swipes another scone in case Kas might want one. If not, more for her.

If it weren't for the very real pressure of trying to ensure Vailkrin's current state is repaired in a timely manner on her sire and her own shoulders, the seamstress might've actually enjoyed the chaos in the halls a little bit. Time crunches were typically fun, but not like this. Was there even a time crunch, or was this self imposed? The thought remains on Inks' mind until she's led into Kasyr's office, whereupon she sidles out of the guard's way and wordlessly settles into a seat at her sire's desk. The exasperated groan that escapes her lips is exaggerated for the purpose lightening the mood, and she slides the partially squished pastry over to Kasyr. “Whatcha need, Kas?” Eager to help as always.

Kasyr's may have snorted, somewhere between the melodramatic sigh, and the placating offer of pastry. As far as good-humour related bribes go? It's not the worst, and it's certainly a step in the right direction towards getting him to focus on the present. "What don't I need, quand meme? I'm still waiting on a prospective undead delegate- I still need to figure out someone to serve as the human one-" Khitti. It was Khitti, and he was trying to figure out the best way to spring it on her. "That said- I think the big issue es the last stab from the Blackwells. While they may have taken their exile relatively well- she couldn't keep her mouth closed long enough to avoid adding -another- faction in the growing tensions. So, now we need to maintain more guards along the forest boundaries the Drow's sake, as well as our own- et figure out where to- just-" He gestures broadly to the south, "Anywhere but here, vraiment. Though- I suppose offering to help with any sort of reclamation process that one day happens would certainly be prudent." Good PR, and gets them out of their hair. "How goes your . . ." He's trying to find the good word, but given she's been working on a seemingly ceaseless deluge of paperwork for months now- he doesn't even know where to start. Instead, he simply steps over to his desk, offhandedly leaning against it with one hand- A pastry now protruding from his mouth.

“You need -help-,” Inks states, in what is supposed to be the beginning of another jab at making their situation just a little bit lighter. Thankfully, she had a letter in her pocket from Valrae that might be a light in the dark for them in that regard too. With an unnecessary flourish she reveals it, and turns it so Kasyr can read. The bulk of the letter was related to the seamstress's personal inquiry about witchcraft, but this wasn't something that she felt necessary to hide from Kasyr. Transparency was her thing for the most part. She didn't have anything to hide from him. Her index finger moved to lead his eyes toward Val's offer of aid however, to keep them both on task. “And look, you'll get help if you ask – er, if we ask?” Can she make sweeping decisions without consulting him? Mention of the Blackwells and their commentary causes Inks' grin to diminish a little, but it's brief. She read the paper, and makes a dismissive wave. “We'll get it under control,” Inks assures. Sacred's proud influence didn't necessarily loom over her anymore, but when was she ever -not- proud or overly confident? She's lucky. Kas should know that. He's seen it, she tells herself. “I can focus on the Drow... They probably like me more than you,” she teases. As for her paperwork and ledger mountain. “I hate numbers now,” she admits, “But I'm exceptional at writing letters now. We're prioritizing clearing areas around Ventra's so she'll relax. I kind of miss that big thing that carried Kirien and I down the street once, honestly.” The Chitterling. “It'd make quick work of cleaning the roads up, but it might be too thorough.” Setting something loose that'll eat their citizens isn't wise, but again. Humor. That seems to be her coping mechanism for tackling all of this. She sits up in her seat, arms resting on the desk so she can grab for whatever trinkets he might keep there to keep her hands busy with. “How are you doing with all this, Kas?”

Kasyr offers something of a wry smirk, "That would explain why I thought this was all a good idea." Still, whatever self-deprecatory statement that might have ensued is quickly quelled- as Inks presents her prize. And, as opposed to the myriad documents scattered about the office, it bears a pleasent familiarity- something which has him leaning in to get a bit more familiar with its contents, "Well, this -does- address some of what I intended to ask her, after the gift she'd sent to me, and our own chat." There's a pause, his right hand lifting up to showcase the ring that had been a gift from them both, "Though, given the invitation- I suppose you'll have to take a break from your own projects to attend this. ..Et the meeting with Magik. There might also be an undead delegate- ...And the papers." He might have pinched his nose, as the recollection of everything pending, and still to come starts to catch up again, "As for the drow. Despite all apprehensions, I intend on asking Lanlan." A former house to his name, and a current area would likely sit well- provided they didn't get mauled by a stirred up populace or god knows what that's in the woods. ..Or chitterlings. Excellent reminder, Inks. Still, she's trying her best to keep him in the present, and he can tell, given her current inquiry. "Suitably distracted, j'pense." There's a bit of a shrug, as he leans back and nudges a small set of letters, "Though if you mean on the whole, I'll let you know, when I figure it out. How about you? Especially with your newfound distaste for numbers?"

“Nope, none of that.” Inks had too much of her own self-deprecating self-talk to talk herself out of and replace with an overabundance of confidence. “We've got this.” Do they? Before she can question herself further, her eyes lock on the ring Kasyr reveals. “That was fun to make,” and gods did she wish she were at her worktable working on jewels or frilly dresses rather than having her nose in ledgers. If her sire ever decides to browse through the pages of them, he'd find tiny drawings of clothes and faceted stones covering the margins. Her offer to help with the Drow being shot down isn't met with disappointment, especially with the person Kas mentions instead. “Makes sense to me,” agrees Inks. She takes his response of being distracted and nudge of that letter pile as an invitation to take a look, and sets her own from Valrae down to do just that. While opening one, her reply to his question is roughly the same. A slight shrug while she skims the words on the page but doesn't actually register what's written. “I'm still...absorbing all of it, I guess? I have some ideas for rebuilding and - Oh -!” speaking of Lanlan, Inks realized something that she failed to mention. Her eyes leap from the letter in her hands to meet Kasyr's. “I visited Lanlan..yesterday?” The day before? Time's a blur. “I'm back in the guild now.” She leaves out the bit about seeing Odhranos' body in the room they're keeping it, but must be written on her face.

Kasyr finds himself genuinely smiling, at least for a moment. "Well, glad someone has actual faith in me." Because as much as the heads of houses had offered their support, he couldn't help but wonder how many had done so out of convenience. That, and it was hard to forget what had been said when he'd been on the threshold, back in the depths of House Alnwick. The smile's now long departed, replaced instead by a bleaker, pensive look. One which doesn't quite curb when she shares the news about the Guild, "Congratulations, en fait. Maybe you can play the role of Liason between myself et them, for whenever me and Lan invariably clash. Especially since i'm, uh- employed elsewhere . . ." Had he mentioned his deal with Macon? Perhaps, but there were times when the words didn't quite register, under the weight of balancing accounts, "Did I mention that I'm employed as a teacher at the academy? ..I'll admit, i partly did it so I could show up to the next Mage's Faire as one of their representatives, " I.E. to spite Lan, "But- ..also just because I miss teaching. After all, my two favourite swordsmanship students have since graduated to the time honored school of 'trying to kill Kas'." The fact that her heart sunk hadn't been missed, but the specifics hadn't registered- only the need to redirect her focus. "You know, If you're feeling overworked- we could perhaps take a visit to the forest? We'd need to make a survey of the now vacated Blackwell Estate. See if she left any nasty arcane surprises. That, et perhaps the path to Trist'oth. See how safe it is- if there's any more refugees trickling out."

|Despite Kasyr's grin, Iintahquohae gives him a puzzled look before grinning herself. “Of course I have faith in you. You've done all of this once before, and you can do it again.” She almost tells him to not second guess himself, but with the guards posted within earshot, she'd keep that 'order' to herself. The idea was to emphasize that Kas is reliable knows what in the world he's doing, and hope whoever overhears spreads it. It hadn't crossed her mind that she could act as a liason, but that made Inks' decision to rejoin the guild feel more appropriate, and not entirely selfish, even if it was. “You are? I don't remember you ever telling me that.” Maybe he did and she forgot. The seamstress's head cants to one side at his desire to teach again. “Why don't you teach me something? Not swords-” she produces a wry smile. Sacred educated her enough for her to come to the realization that blades weren't for her. Bludgeoning something with a blunt object, was much more her speed. Raising her dominant hand, Inks tries to conjure some little sparks between her fingertips, but it's nothing compared to the lightning she's witnessed Kasyr call down. “Teach me this instead? And whatever other magic you've got.” That said, she's quick to stand at his suggestion to visit the forest, eager to get out of the castle and do anything other than stare at paperwork. “Let's go then. Maybe we could clean out what's left and give the refugees a place to stay there?”

Kasyr might not be privvy to Inks internal logic, but the sense of reassurance is enough for him to more smoothly shift to the subject at hand, "I am. I also need to talk with the Macon about the Embargo with Vailkrin. Things have smoothed over- so I think it's time to come to the negotiating table. Especially since we now know he was smuggling items to someone that was both a cultist & tried to rally the city into Civil war." There's a brief scratch at his cheek, "And well, I imagine his legendary hatred of witches will make him second guess his decision to support her, given Tessa's cordial arrangements with Valrae in recent months." Kasyr isn't quite as boisterous as Inks, so that any tidbits that might be gleaned by a guard are hard-earned. Still, he does perk up noticeably when she mentions the desire to be taught, "Well, it's always nice to have an eager student, j'suppose." Still, when she invokes a few errant sparks into existence- his brows knit together, his expression overall more thoughtful, "A lot of what I know es specifically tailored -around- swords, and other parts are harder to teach. That said, I imagine a lot of the simpler ideas could be transferred to any sort of weapon you're holding- et some of the theories . . ." This isn't a fishing trip- but then, having someone who -isn't- a former archmage to bounce theory against and see how accessible the ideas are? "Oui. I'll do it." Which sounds closer to him agreeing to the caves. And frankly, he has no qualms with that either- so he begins to make his way towards the door, "Sounds like a plan. We can at least make things more comfortable for those topside, et check on the overall state of their encampment."

“Whatever gets every single one of these ridiculous embargoes scrubbed away, I'm here for,” Inks murmurs. She might detest that word more than how much she detests numbers, since it was one of the primary reasons she spent so much time -staring- at numbers. “What's Macon like, anyway? Apart from...” Genocidal? Likely a monster? Tyrannical? She chooses a different word instead, given she didn't entirely know Kasyr's relationship with Larket's King. “Divisive.” While curious about Larket, she's far more curious and slightly disappointed that her sire's work with lightning is blade-centric. While this should be seen as a perfect opportunity to ask Kas to teach her how to properly use a sword for the inevitable return of Sacred, she's stubbornly closed-minded to it despite how fitting she suspected it might be for her. But she liked her wands, fists, and bats too much to deviate. The disappointed expression that tugs at her features is exaggerated, but it quickly transitions into a grin. “Simple stuff is good. Maybe I can expand from that.” She's out the door before he is, eager to get as far away from offices and paperwork as she can for a bit. Inks didn't know enough about Drow culture to make any solid assumptions, but she knew a little to make a guess or two. “If they have any heads of their houses alive, maybe we should talk to them first. If they trust that we're actually there to help and not harm, that'll,” she crosses her fingers, “-that'll hopefully trickle down to the others and benefit us in the future once they've rebuilt and returned home.”

Kasyr might have snorted at Inks exceptionally careful phrasing. "We'll make a politician out of you yet." That said, he doesn't clarify more than that, waiting for them to begin making progress out of the office, and to a point in the halls where there's noone within ear shot, before he finally adds, "He's a zealot. With a particular grudge. Which is going to be a talking point when I next contact him." After all, the witch he'd been counting on- that he'd been working with, according to Lita & Mahri? Well, she'd thrown her lot in with Valrae. That -had- to infuriate him. But that was that, and this, "If simple stuff works, we can figure out the rest. I've been -working- on a less dangerous version of my lightning tricks that I can teach. It's just- taking time." But he didn't really have any reason to procrastinate anymore, did he? It was about this point they were entering the front hall- and gathered throng of people beyond the doors. Something which has the Kensai catching Inks by the crook of her arm, and abruptly veering towards the kitchens. "Servants exit, J'pense." Regardless, non-politics talk was able to be tackled freely, so he continued, "I think it'll be fine. I'm more familiar teaching with swords, but a lot of what I know can be adapted to weapons, safely enough." As for her latter comment, well- he can address that once they step out the back, and - great, there's still more people. "I contacted Lanlan. Pretty sure he counts." Close enough, anyways. Maybe he could just..leap over the supplicants? They had work to do.

“Oh gee, I can't wait.” The sarcasm is palpable, and remains as Kasyr describes just how 'divisive' King Macon is. “Do I have to meet him?” Inks didn't particularly want to, but if she had to, she may as well mentally prepare. Less dangerous lightning tricks to start sounded better than no lightning tricks, and the seamstress can't help laughing a little. “Define 'less dangerous'. For us or...” She almost said them when they reached the front hall, but with how swiftly Kasyr guided her into a different direction, her question remains unfinished. It's replaced by a different one, as another realization sinks in. She didn't have this problem with crowds of people when she was House Azakhaer's vassal. “...So is this my new normal?” When they're met with another roadblock of people on the way out, it's Inks' turn to take the lead. Being unfamiliar with the layout of the castle compared to Kasyr meant she'd clutch his arm and turn them right back around after a sheepish wave at the group of supplicants, then duck into what she hoped was an empty room just off of the main hall. Luckily, her guess was right. While freeing the odd dagger (which she really should just call a seam ripper at this point) that she used for her portal trick, Inks' eyes narrow at the space before them. She didn't know where exactly in the forest the drow might be, which meant guesstimating roughly which seam to cut was tricky. There isn't much time to stand around and guess, so she quickly settles on one that feels like it should be just at an edge of the Dark Forest. Which edge? Not a clue. She hopes it's near the Black Pond, given her familiarity with it and its tentacled occupant. In a quick, downward motion, she cuts the opening. The eerie sounds of the Dark Forest can be heard just beyond it, and she quickly steps through while pulling Kasyr along with her before the opening seals back up.

Kasyr may have allowed a smirk to crop up on his face in response to her 'enthusiasm', only replying to her with a shake of his head, and then a small shrug. Her next question is the one he has to consider with every bit of seriousness it was due- something which paired nicely with her decision to take charge and lead the way. Well, up until the point that their step through a portal nearly turns into a step into the Pond. His foot dangles above those bleak depths, a few faint bubbles drifting to the surface akin to a silent greeting, before his body veers to the side so he can plant his foot down. Perhaps it was due to the errant thoughts, or maybe it was just Kasyrs' luck in portaling himself into the drink with her trick. Still, the situation's averted- leading to him picking up where they'd left off, "For both, J'suppose- though mostly it's a mitigating factor for you. The extremes which I push them are- specific to moi. Personalized. And even without that, a misuse of a minor variant could cause...issues." He extends his right palm out- coaxing a faint orb of electrical energy into existence, before it promptly bursts asunder into every direction, short lived motes swallowed by the night. "And then imagine that's your body. Franchement, crashing into a wall at those speeds is one of the more survivable mishaps. At least, comparitively." That small demonstration done- the Kensai begins to glance around, if only so he can properly get his bearings.

Signs of the drow's presence in the woods was hard to miss, a number of palisades visible in the tree-line, no doubt erected with the sort of haste that only true desperation can evoke. And yet, the encampment itself is abandoned, for long enough that telltale webs were already laced around them- providing an eerie feeling to the entire proceedings. "...Where?" While there was a faint scent of blood in the area, it was difficult to discern the freshness, and whether it belonged to a felled forest dweller, or the former occupants of this encampment, by dint of existing injury, or vicious struggle. The only real hint they have to follow are the trails- which scatter in any number of directions. Perhaps they were already seeking to re-establish the indepence they once joined below, or had sought to leave the city limits to connect with another city, or an area that might have the room and resources to support them. And yet, amongst the myriad trails- one is notable, given there's a sizable number of footsteps leading in the direction of the very caves they were aiming to investigate. "I don't know about normal-"

When it's her turn to step through the torn seam, Inks hardly bats an eye when her leg goes calf-deep into the Pond. She didn't know the name of the kraken in those depths, but they were friends. Sort of? Visiting the Pond in her mortal days and her vampire days for a swim inevitably meant the two were at least acquainted, so the odd sensation of something pushing up against the underside of her boot to stabilize her enough to mimic Kasyr and step properly onto land wasn't much of a surprise. She shakes her wet leg. After a “Thanks, bud,” followed by a wave to the kraken, she considers Kasyr's words about electricity and how it works. She guesses. “Kinda like my string thing? Or...that?” She motions to the seam as it reseals itself. Though with Kas' understanding of how it worked and its 'rules', seam ripping didn't seem especially unique to her. Still a nifty trick, though. Before she can pose another question, the seamstress blinks at the sudden burst of electrical light and swears her hair begins to stand on end. That ridiculous fox tail she has abruptly straightens with her surprise before resettling, and she has to curse. She hated the stupid thing.

Her eyes try to follow Kasyr's to mark out where the drow have set up. The palisades look distinctly not.. drow-like, which elicits a frown. They really are struggling out here. While her sire questions where, Inks is already on the move for the trail littered with footprints and the caves it led to. She figured since their intention was to assess things and offer aid, just walking into the cave might be the quickest signal that she and Kasyr meant no harm. ...But they're refugee drow, probably traumatized, most likely pissed. Which meant hostile. After her comical attempt at pretending to be head of House Azakhaer with Odh in tow in the Underdark to get them in to see Gevurah that one time, she figures she might as well try that again and go first. They probably have guards posted in the shadows of the cave, just out of sight, and Inks banks on that as she treads close to the cave opening and calls out in their tongue. “Hello? I'm Lady Az-” Maybe lead off with King Kasyr first, Inks. So the hierarchy is clear. Did she ever do things like this when she was his vassal? Announce his presence? Wasn't it mostly just running messages? She tries again, announcing him first. If they ask for who she is, she'll try that Lady title out for once. “King Kasyr of Vailkrin is here to request an audience with survivors of Trist'oth's Houses.” After she says the words, Inks' eyes slide over to Kasyr to gauge whether or not she made the right move.

Kasyr might have quirked an eyebrow at the Kraken lending a 'hand', but then- that thing had hurdled more than once in his life. "Huh." Picky bastard, wasn't it. Regardless, her question at least provides something to pass the time with, "Maybe? I don't know how your string thing works, cherie. Just that you can-" He gestures in an off-handed wave, "-Do the thing. But yes, the second es a good example. Especially if someone doesn't have the ability to intuitively cheat the process." Which might be one of the only times he's ever admitted that quirk he developed as a Kensai. But that was enough teacher talk, for now. He could always pick things up later, pretend they were professor and student, after hours at the Academy. Macon wouldn't mind. Probably.

Still, those idle thoughts are pushed to the side when they arrive at the cave, and inks offers her opening overtures to the stillness of the cavern, her voice echoing of her interior as she shifts from a tentative attempt at authority, to something more befitting a herald. And yet, even with the forethought put into the use of their tongue, the answer - is silence. A stillness only ponctuated by the sound of dripping, and the soft shifting of cavern detritus. Kasyr, for his part, doesn't seem perturbed by Inks handling of the situation, a flicker of faint amusement crossing his features for a moment - and then rapidly slipping away again as he catches sight of something moving in the shadows. What slowly emerges from the darkness is not the lithe movements of a figure in a piwafi, nor even a weapon borne with hostility- but the snake-like advance of crimson threads, creeping along the cavern floor. And still, the dripping echoes.

“It isn't fair that you get to cheat,” Inks teases. “How in the world am I supposed to get even close to as good as you if I can't,” she mirrors the vague wave of his hand before, along with his words, “Do the thing?” After it seems that her attempt to announce Kasyr's presence along with her own is met with silence, she unnecessarily due to both her height and the fact that the movement actually wouldn't help her at all to see into the darkness of the cave, hops up on her tiptoes and squints into the shadows. She can hear dripping, and can't help her immediate assumption that it's water given their proximity to the pond. Kasyr catches a glimpse of the thing approaching them from the shadows before she does, but when she does see the peculiar red threads, the seamstress's mind immediately jumps to two possibilities. A very shoddy trip 'alarm' for the drow within the cave, or some strange root system that belonged to one of the dark forests' peculiar plants. Something that looked red and vein-y and...oddly sentient, she guessed, didn't seem out of the question around here, but the dripping sound puzzles her.

“We don't mean any harm,” Inks tries again, a little bit louder. It's the truth, isn't it? At least for her. She wanted to help the whatever refugee drow might be inside, and she takes a step forward. Then another. Her nostrils flare in some attempt to determine whether or not that dripping sound is blood or merely pond water. It's a foolish, risky move, so entirely something Inks would do, but once she's close enough to one of the approaching crimson tendrils, she deliberately places her boot right next to it on the ground, as if to challenge it to do something more than just slither. Whether it snares her or worse, how are either her or Kasyr going to find out unless she behaves recklessly? Just a little bit. The seamstress even turns her head a little so her attention isn't fully on what might be controlling the threads, to settle on her sire briefly. “Maybe we shouldn't have come empty-handed.”

Kasyr may have shrugged in response to Inks assertion of fairness, and added a small correction, "There es practice et innovation involved." But that was then. Now? Now, there's a problem, because the seamstresses suspicion hardly needs confirming, as a wave of mingled scents wafts up from the cavern. Blood, new and old- so many anonymous lives dancing at the tip of her tongue, filling her nose, and washing around her feet in thickening streams. Perhaps, as her eyes continued to adjust, she'd see the first hints of slaughter- the rough outline of a ruined body impaled on a stalactite, the adamantine armour nearly showing the base of that rocky protrusion.

Undoubtedly, the sight that Inks sees when she turns her head towards the kensai is equally morbid- that stream of blood having been drawn to the Revenant by his gift, in only to pool at his feet, and begin dripping upwards to form a number of concentric halos. Reserves.

She's looking towards him, but his gaze is still focused on the cavern, even as he removes a set of goggles from his pockets, to slide their neon-blue lenses over his eyes, "Least of our concerns, cherie. Look alive." The lenses, enchanted by Dervious, do wonders for revealing the caverns secrets, at the misshapen figures that seemed to stir in response to the vampires voices- and most importantly, at the source of the distinct cracking noise that echoes from the interior. The sound of malformed fingers clamping around a stagmite, and using the same strength once mustered to move a ghroundium gate, to break it from it's earthbound mooring, and sending it sailing towards the closer target, the seamstress. A sound that's soon mirrored twice more, as those other shadowed forms follow suit- though one of them draws nearer, either bereft of a weapon to wield, or drawn closer by some unfathomable impulse.

The scent of blood hits her in a way that can only be described as unpleasant. She wasn't hungry necessarily, but to say the lure wasn't there would be a lie. Inks almost stoops down to get a better look (not a taste, promise) of the blood passing by her feet, but she sees the aftermath of a massacre instead in the shadows as her eyes finally adjust. Her stomach drops. Were they all drow? When the seamstress looks to Kasyr again and witnesses the blood collecting around him, she almost has the nerve to say he's cheating again. That's...probably cheating, right? Somehow. Could she even do that too? Look alive. Her head turns in time to see the blur of something very large and very heavy thrown straight at her.

Inks should duck or step to the side instead of planting her feet firmly in the bloody ground. With arms outstretched, she catches the stalagmite, grunting as the force and weight of it hits her middle and slides her back a fair distance from the cavern's entrance until she's maybe a foot or so behind Kasyr. The smart thing might have been to hang back and properly try to assess just what might be in the cave that's threatening her sire and herself, considering the seamstress is essentially going to be fighting blind here. But when did fighting ever bring out Inks' smarts? Once she's regained her balance, the palms of her hands heat up, engulfing the gigantic projectile tossed at her in flames. With similar or maybe stronger force, Inks can't really tell, she pitches the fiery stalagmite back into the cave. Whether it hits whatever threw it at her or not isn't necessarily important, but the fire is.

“Ah. Now I can see.”

Kasyr can feel his tongue press against the inside of his cheek as the seamstress decides that the best defense is a -very- good offense. "Huh." After so long, It was a good reminder of what it meant to carry his blood. Admittedly, the sheer smoothness of the display may have also served to elicit an approving whistle, especially as the flaming stone careens into it's original sender.

Red and orange dance along the rock, cascading out from glowing fissures along it's surface- dispelling the shadows which had once obscured the ruins of the border guard. The ruins of trampled bodies, of broken and dismembered limbs come into an eerie clarity- and with them, the full scale of the forms which still moved within the cavern mouth. Each figure was a bulky bipedal mass, a vague collection of decaying and damaged flesh which seemed to bulge and tear from the sheer strain of the musculature beneath. Perhaps, at one point, the blank hollows of it's face may have held some illusion, some vestige of humanity- but, whether due to decay, damage, or wicked design, there is nothing to latch onto.

A grotesqueness which is only further emphasized by how the golem Inks impaled begins to trundle forward- seemingly indifferent to the vast protrusion of stone which rested central to it's chest, or the way it's flesh charred and sloughed away from it's form. A movement that seems to inspire the one at the head of the pack to change tactics, as it's gradual advance gathers speed- turning into more of an impromptu tackle meant for the one who seemed like the more obvious threat. 'Obvious'. Tapping into that vampiric gift he so rarely relied upon, the Revenant takes a more direct hold of the blood culminating around himself- lancing it into one of the myriad seems in the creatures flesh. It's only when his fist clenches that his intention becomes apparent, as it's knee bursts, buckling the creatures leg and sending it careening to the ground. "Choose your target, I guess?" Not that there was a shortage, given the two wielding stony clubs were now beginning to emerge from the cave as well.

It takes her a minute to fully register what her fire-stalagmite revealed. Some sort of amalgam of undead parts turned into larger entities, she guessed? Was that even close to being correct? It didn't matter, Inks deduced. They're fleshy, and therefore potentially kill-able. While Kasyr works some sort of blood magic that briefly gives the seamstress pause, since she'd never witnessed something quite like it before, Inks eventually turns her attention toward one of the club-toting golems headed their way. Creating her own club from the earth beneath her feet was becoming her default solution to large problems like this lately (at least when she's outside and dirt is readily available), so Inks digs her heels further into the dirt to better anchor her momentarily while she quickly stoops to plant her palms down on the bloody dirt. The blood isn't as much of a hindrance as she thought it may be, since it softened some of the dirt into something more malleable that she could shape into a club that matched the golem's clubs at least in size. Her hands clasp the handle of the club as it begins to take shape, and once it solidified enough for her to properly wield it's lifted from the ground, leaving behind a club-shaped indentation at her feet. She balances it over a shoulder while casting a glance at Kas.

“I'll take Lefty,” she offers, and without another word she bounds forward toward the golem on the left. Instead of bashing her club against the golem's head once she's within striking distance, she swings for its flimsy, undead wrists. The sound of damaged flesh tearing and old bones snapping from the force behind her swing causes her to grimace, but it's a sign of success as the golem's hands are useless for gripping their far better club than hers. She's quick to release her club, letting it fall to the ground, and likely fall apart with her no longer holding it together via magical means, so she can snatch the golem's club, and takes a sharp swing for its skull. The seamstress' speed may be enhanced since her siring, but with her sole focus on the golem she nicknamed 'Lefty', the other (Righty, obviously), has its club in an overhead swing that is moments away from bearing down on her own skull.

Kasyr cannot help but smirk at the seamstresses moniker for her intended target, "Please do, I'm sure I could take notes from your diplomatic approach." Still, as much as a part of him wants to sit there and visualize the golem as floating eyebrow- he has a more pressing matter to attend to. One that see him rushing off to intercept 'Righty' albeit with significantly less preperation than Inks. This focus also means he can see the moment the golem's trajectory shifts- where it's attention snaps wholly to the seamstress. It's at this point that his footsteps go from a drumbeat, to a peal of thunder- his body a brief blur as the remaining distance is closed. The final step may as well be a passing storm, as that accumulated speed hits the golem like a wave of force, a brief stagger that sends it's strike askew, colliding into the ground besides Inks. Whether or not she says something, whether she even hears the impact in the face of that brief roar- is a detail that's lost, even on him.

And yet, the most discernible element of all of this is not the noise, but the rush of crimson in his wake, as every bit of free flowing blood in the fallen golems body, new and old, rebels against it's container. Unhallowed flesh, held together through stitching and ill-maintained magic, ruptures in a violent spray of blood- only to hearken to the Kensai's call, the macabre spill forming into a crimson column within his grasp. The fascimile of a sword- and, with a few rushed words, all he needs to enact a terrible blade spell, entropic energies consuming the improvised arnament- even as it sunders through the flesh and sinew of the undead construct before him. It isn't simply a manner of it being severed into halves- the very flesh decays in ragged heaps, it's fundamental elements evaporating in a chaotic mess that corrodes it for a few harrowing moments after the strike. Musculature, once strong enough to budge ghroundium, spills out from their moorings in a steaming heap that piles in the cap between it's legs- the folds of it's now hollowed flesh drifting atop.

But how was Lefty faring at this juncture, and the flaming Golem, which had not slowed it's advance, even despite the continual encroaching flames. Inks could be a little too reckless for her own good, because eventually she does see the shadow of Righty's club crashing down overhead, but stays put. Lefty still needs to be dealt with, and she's...dealing with it. Probably not the correct way, but her solution to problems like this was typically 'hit the thing as hard as you can until it ceases to be a problem' rather than actually figure out how to shut the golem down. It works. Marginally. The golem's head is thoroughly caved in, its hands are non-functional, but it's still moving. So she keeps bashing it with its club, going for decaying, fleshy kneecaps. The debris that fly off of the golem as she beats it down are disgusting enough that Inks wishes she could stop to pinch her nose, but Kasyr's staggering blow to Righty coincides with her sharp kick to Lefty's broken leg, sending the golem into the trajectory of Righty's striking club. Looks like one golem killed the other. “Thanks!” Inks shouts, both to Kasyr for saving her and Righty as well, in a way.

As she runs forward, out of the cave toward the walking mass of fiery flesh headed their way, Inks gives her sire a double take. Is that a blood sword? “Uh.” Well, that's two times witnessing that strange magic, so naturally she has to try. In the midst of a battle, but in her defense there is plenty of blood to work with around here, so it's the perfect time to give it a whirl. It's fine. Manipulating it like water seemed the most logical, so Inks switches to hefting her stone club one-handed while the opposing hand tries coaxing some of the blood off of the ground. It's...well it's certainly moving, but it's fussy. It'll require both hands. She drops the club and makes more deft, arcing motions with her hands, as if she were working hydromancy but not. Both hands significantly helps, and while she can't work with blood the way Kasyr could, she can at least send a decent sized arc of it toward the fiery golem to help extinguish it and make it less of a threat before it gets any closer. Instead of retrieving her club, she runs headlong into the smoldering, foul-smelling golem, and once shes within grabbing range of it, the seamstress leaps, twists her frame so it's side-facing, and rams into the golem, specifically the stalagmite sticking out of it, elbow-first to maybe force the whole rock through the creature and leave behind a decent size hole straight through its middle. It isn't quite the elbow drop Inks wanted to perform, but if it slowed the golem down, she'll take it. She feels the sleeve of her jacket shred as it passes over jagged bone, along with her own flesh and audibly curses. “Where are the drow?” Inks shouts.

Kasyr didn't really think this through that well- because whilst he's certainly felled a pair of golems at this point- he's also completely ruined the dress clothes he'd been wearing. His dress shirt was painted an uncomfortably sleek shade of red, which still dripped off him. It's with some distaste that he plucks at it, before his attention flicks back towards Iintahquohae and, "...huh." Really, he's not actually sure how she's doing it, though if he had to guess- he'd chalk it up to Odhranos, or, more likely, Daath. Whatever the case, while it wasn't as fluid as the expression of his own vampiric nature- it was certainly revolting enough that there were a number of morale mulching applications. Which would be great if these things had morale. That said, while common sense may fail to dissuade their advance- Inks slam certainly does a solid job of- well, making a mess of things. Specifically, when she slams the rock, it cracks into pieces, sending a ragged halve pouring out it's back, while the other portion drops beneath her. To say it'll be a rough landing is an understatement, but the indignities hardly end there- because as it stumbles forward and drunkenly grasps towards her- a foul smelling accumulating of rotting bodily fluids and musculature begins to ooze out of the whole from it's chest, now that it's been unstoppered. The fact that it's cooked only adds a certain pungency to the whole, and leaves the swordsman stuck between concern and revulsion. "I think, before we do any sort of diplomacy, we maybe take a bath. Frankly, they probably have a scout watching this."

Somehow, the golem actually manages to catch itself mid fall, one shaky arm holding it's failing body aloft as the other reaches to squeeze the life out of the downed seamstress. And yet- it's hand never quite reaches her- the blood that surrounded her sprawled form rising up to meet it- and sever through yet another segment of skin & suture. And sending a fresh pile of meat tumbling on top of her. "Mes excuses! Sorry, even." Yeah, they should definitely not try and hold any meetings like this, "We'll send them a nice note. Later."

Iintahquohae tries her best not to retch at the explosion of partially cooked, but decaying flesh, blood, and bone she's created, but Kasyr might hear her dry heave when a ton of it piles on top of her. “Are you kidding me-” Plenty of swearing follows, and Inks has to shove her way out of the mess before she is once again visible. Oddly, she's carrying what looks like it was once a lung. How she's able to find something morbidly funny out of this despite dealing with her least favorite thing in the world, ruined clothes, she chucks it at Kasyr. Underhanded, so hopefully it didn't actually hit him. “Oh excuse moi! I didn't mean to dump several bodies-worth of guts on you.” But at least she's able to smile her way through it. They both needed a bath or twenty, and brand new clothes. She tugs at her shredded sleeve, relieved to see that the flesh beneath it has already gone to work with mending itself. Could this stench even be washed out if she bothered mending her shirt? If there are drow either further within the cave or hidden somewhere in the trees, Inks can only hope that she and Kasyr made a decent enough display of...let's call it chaotic force. She's still not entirely certain how she managed to swing flinging blood around without touching it, but that'll be a question for Kasyr for another time.

From her pocket she retrieves her seam ripper and before cutting through, back to what looked like a washroom somewhere in the castle, Inks steps over to Kas and clutches his arm. “You're going to need a brand new wardrobe, I think. Let's go.”