RP:Of Lizards and Men
- Carrick is here.
- Jacklin is here with a swarthy-skinned elite guardian named Sapheul.
- Lirithen is here with a bear-sized huntsman-spider named Molly
- Parsithius is here with a crew of knights.
- Triyul is here.
- Tsukiko is here.
- Rawnie is here.
- Warren is here with a larket ranger regiment.
Triyul From beneath a black, insect-like helm resided eyes scanning over notes chalked up to be useless, and as arrogance demanded, of no importantance. Yet. Charcoal pencil was procured none the less, a note begining its eventual poise toward completion - a voice, he cast a glance over his shoulder. That was all, the hailing disregarded, the note resumed. The general, his mood varied - and today, it was serious. Somber. Arrogant, prideful - again his thought was interupted. He shouted at the parchment in front of him without a pause in writing, "Yes." only loud enough for Warren to hear. His armor made no noise as tall, broad body twisted for longer than a glance now - but a curious study. A human. Those cutting gray orbs dance to the window, almost a suggestive warning, where a very obvious ally to the Preklek crouched watching. Black armor, a face shadowed by that same helm, a scout - by the lithe frame - or maybe something more. Attuned ears, this early eve, would hear the wind rustle up damp leaves from a recent rain - and foot steps. Several of them, "What of it?" Now he turned - pride demanded it - note disregarded, and fully viewed the male.
Carrick normally would do exactly as instructed, but with this being a chance to see his would-be commander in action and all, he doesn't feel right at all about bailing. Not to mention with Lirithen arriving, he gets the feeling something important is about to go down. Clearly, Carrick desires to stay and watch. But he opts to do so behind the bar, where it's safe....r. Kind of?
Lirithen:: The creak of a straining bowstring was what gave Lirithen away, followed by a loud cackle as yellow sparks streaked from where half-gloved fingertips clutched the feathered shaft of a single elven arrow, dancing manically across the baited projectile 'til summoned electricity hugged the surface of a steel arrow tip. An anticipant, almost sadistic grin plucked softly at the corners of thin elven lips as emerald gaze locked upon his preklek target. He stood some fair distance away from the boards, his back to the wall but metres from where he had risen from his seat at Triyul's turn and address of the regiment commander. The flaps of a coat encrusted with ebony mithril plates swirled gently around his ankles, an an eerie whistle carrying on a sudden light breeze; the Sacred Winds had stirred, sensing the coming fray, and were eager to assist the ranger elf in the coming brawl.
Triyul continues to keep his eyes on Warren, awaiting a response. Meanwhile, outside - there were say, give or take from a quick glance, twenty or so Preklek hidden in shrub, tree, and alley in the small village of Kelay this morn. The general had not taken threats lightly, nay, and with a clicking gutteral communique the alien creatures kept in quiet contact. All appeared to be unarmed. Appeared. Slowly though, stealthfully, they were converging 'pon the building - the tavern - with no real danger seeming to lurk from there presence. Other than the obvious.
Valaran:: Magic. He could sense it in the air. The scholar, clad in robes the color of midnight, peers out from beneath his hood, seeking the source of the power emanating in the room. It takes but a fraction of a second for the young man to pinpoint the source; the telltale crackle of electricity crackling through the air quickly draws his attention to the wood elf. Those same optics now follow the line of the arrow, falling upon the figure of Triyul, causing the young scholar’s eyes to widen in sudden realization. He rises quickly, left hand darting to the ritualistic dagger attached to his side, and takes several steps in the wood elf’s direction. Valaran winces as he pulls the dagger across his right palm, words of the arcane, oft forbidden and forgotten by many today, already filling the air with an obstreperous din. He lowers the dagger and raises his right hand, blood flowing freely upon it, into the air. No further action is taken, though he certainly appears ready to do… something? Anything. Should the need arise.
Warren does not need to see his elven companion to know that he has risen from his seated postion to take aim upon this alien abomanation. His confidence rises in having such a skilled fighter by his side, not to mention the seven rangers he commands already within the establishment and those ten or so more outside patrolling, so that he meets the stare of this foreign invader with stalwart defiance. An inch or so of his blades are raised so that if need be they may be released from thier slumber to wreak the destruction they were forged to do in a moments notice, the swords becoming instruments of death in the hands of the Larketian. Once more those harlequin hued orbs scrutinize the rather impressive form of the preklek general known to him as Triyul. A smirk playing upon his parched lips now as he says. " Seems you and your lot have decided to make another trip into our lands." The woodland rogue now paces back and forth as he positions himself in a more calculated fighting stance to better aid his men, whom already have armed thier crossbows below the tables they sit at. Should this beast have the nerve to attack now, he was ready. So now he finishes his sentence, his commanding voice calling out. " Couldn't get enough of the last time we kicked your kinds ass? Or are you lot just gluttons for pain?" Those few within the tavern dare not laugh, even though that was sorta funny, due to the serious nature of this encounter. " For far too long you have walked these lands unchallenged and unchecked." Alexander then cracks his neck to the side as a deep inhalation of breath is taken to calm the beast that stirs within. " That time is over."
Carrick can take everything in from his "safe" vantage point. At least, as as safe as wood and stone is likely to be with umpteen Preklek and archers exchanging fire in short order. Just in case, the teen wanderer reaches for his trusted weapon, the vaunted rusty dagger ... only to have the hilt snap off in his hand. He really needs to do something about that thing breaking all the time. Good thing he's out of the way. For now.
Lirithen:: The gentle clapping of footsteps along the wooden floor tickles a flicker in a pointed ear, green orbs deviating but a moment from their intended target to locate the source; a sight which quickly had the rest of the ranger's form rotating a short angle to instead bring aim and weapon upon the approaching mage. That light breeze flared, for just a second, wreaking brief havoc around the tree-born, causing the metallic plates on his coat to rattle menacingly, and silvery locks to blow and flutter wildly around the archer elf's visage. An intimidating picture, though invisible currents dropped and settled into a calm circulation of Lirithen's lower half. The air fluctuated into the emanation of a ghostly chuckle, the sentient, malevolent Winds excited and amused by the thought of confrontation. A single brow lofted in Valaran's direction, lips pursed tight, the unfired arrow trained directly at the heart of the approaching mage. “Another of his brainwashed lackies?”
Triyul:: "Mother fu-" <-- That's what he should have said. This is what Triyul did say. "Oh." Was there...amusement in that tone? Possible. Whatever may lie in the underbelly of that one single word, it would not have time to make itself known - the one at the window. The Preklek. Observant people, these aliens. Really. Quite. Shards of glass burst into the tavern as that one, single scout topples over a table - Tsukiko's table - and into the establishment with such speed, such calculation - any watchers may wonder what they were seeing. The speed was impressive, by Feline standards. Lacking, by a vampires - but a human would find it difficult to track the fast moving alien. That same alien, that same seven and a half foot tall creature leapt over a single table. Both feet barely, just barely brush the top and with a rather grand display - both arms extend to expose a conjoined segment of skin starting at the hip and leading up to the wrists. Gliding? Really? Yes. Just as the creature was gliding -into- Warren, the front door would burst open - six would flood in, and only knowing the general was in danger - head straight for the cause of that threat. None had yet to draw a weapon. But, again. Warren. Throughout all of this, the arrogant alien stood, unperturbed - yet as that one single Preklek took flight he would sweep out toward Warren's legs with his shin. To catch your foe off guard was to place a gold coin in your man-purse, he'd once been told. A pence saved, a pence earned. Those remaining outside - the entrance was now guarded. The thirteen aliens who had escorted him here were yet to make a move, other than watch. Exit was unlikely, and deadly, from the tavern.
Valaran allows naught but the faintest of smiles to pull at the corners of his lips as the elf’s attention sways from his intended target to the mage himself. Right arm now dropping to the side for the time being, though a gentle and steady trickle of blood like unto the dripping of dew from the morning branches still runs down his hand and onto the floor. Covered from head to toe in obsidian vestment, eyes and nose overshadowed by a matching hood, the scholar is, indeed, the personification of mystery. He makes no move to protect himself from the threat of attack; instead, he stands resolute in the face of adversity, unwilling to budge yet ready to defend himself should- nay when- the need arises.
Warren Alexander explodes into action as soon as the clatter of shattering glass reaches his ears, sister blades of masterwork elven make erupting forth from thier slumber within leather sheathes to meet the threat of prekelek attack. Reflexes honed from years of training come into play as left heel is arched back to allow the man's weight to shift properly in a whirlwind motion of deadly precision. The backside of the ranger's shoulder is nicked by alien shin, the strange metal that covers the large alien's flesh meets the magically enhanced leather guards that rest atop braod shoulders. The clash climaxes in the Larketian's right scimitar removing said leg is a clean horizontal slash as it's twin is plunged deep within the beasts left ribcage. Vitae flows, strange liquid covers both blades as a scream unlike anything those of Lithrydel have heard erupts forth from the now dying creature. The scout's heavy body lies upon the hilt of Warren's blade, the magical aid of the ring of ogre strength giving the man the ability to hold such a being is the air with ease. In a final moment of martial prowess, Warren continues in his course of action by removing his buried blade from its new home within the scout, and begins to charge his advisary with startling celerity. The enchanted armor he wears, from his head to his feet, aids his actions in a variety of ways. His leather boots give him the speed that allows for him to match the speed of those prekleks he has encountered, and as such he is upon Triyul in a matter of seconds. Now the General of the Preklek army would see why his men have not returned from thier posts. Each movement he makes is fluid, and compliments the other, resulting in a display of martial mastery that is best described as a dance of death. Sister blades, enchanted to be able to defeat both the hardest metals and powerful magical defences, sweep towards the enhanced preklek with deadly accuracy and power. The first assault comes in the form of his right blade sweeping in in a downward arch aimed to cleave the alien in twine, while its sister is plunged forth in an attempt to penetrate the beasts left shoulder socket. Both attacks are capable of deadly amounts of damage, though the first is more a feint to open up Triyul's defences so that he may disable his left arm with his second. Always one to think ahead, Warren was already setting up the General to be picked apart piece by peice. As this all unfolds, those seven sleeper cells that alwats accompanied the Commander in his visits to nieghboring cities react to the sudden influx of preklek warriors, the vollies of bolts being released filling the tavern for a moment as the magically enhanced projectiles fly towards thier targets with incredible accuracy and speed. It seems the element of surprise works both ways in this encounter this day...
Lirithen 's assault was partially accidental, the primed and prepared arrow lessened as the tinkering of shattering glass penetrated keen tree-born hearing. A reflex, instinctive, the enchanted projectile launching itself forward before the elf was even aware it had left his hand. Elven precision, particularly when employed by this celebrated ranger, was without flaw, the arrow streaking forward with a speed untraceable by the naked eye, sharpened arrow tip honing in upon Lirithen's prior target; the dead centre of where Valaran's heart should be. As if piercing the organ wouldn't be enough electricity still cackled along the length of the steel arrowhead, a bound burst of lightning to instantly shoot across the mage's chest and blast his nervous system to ruins. Limbs would fall, unconsciousness immanent, and Valaran's limp, sleeping body left to the mercy of the Sacred Winds which rushed forth with unabashed glee as the chaos began. The oncoming elemental compressed, gathering it's being into a single, hardened sphere of natural gases that hurtled forward with such ferocity that even Lirithen was left stumbling backwards in the wake of the rush of air that followed his loosened projectile. The Winds are not particular about their aim, anywhere about the man's torso would suffice to send him flying backwards into tables, chairs, angry patrons, and finally the hard, unforgiving far wall that waited to catch the unfortunate mage. Lirithen's attention quickly turned to the oncoming Preklek horde, a second arrow drawn from the quiver strapped firmly to the archer's back, loosened and embedded into the neck of an oncoming alien aggressor. Throaty gurgles and exotic blood spilled from the dying lizard, the elf already choosing his next target as a third arrow found his finest of bows.
Jacklin, having apparently walked in on something fantastic, scoots her generic chair a few more inches toward the nearest wall. She didn’t want to be in the way, after all.
Carrick is clearly out of his depth, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like he needs to do something. As far as he can surmise his suspicions were correct – namely that Lirithen and Warren could be trusted – and as a result the novice ranger feels a bit safer and emboldened. If the duo had stopped that freaky experimental elf-bot-thing then certainly a few Preklek weren’t going to be too much of a challenge, he figured. From behind the bar Carrick snatches one of Mesthak’s bar rags, using it to retrieve the broken blade of his rusted dagger with great care, so as not to slice his own fingers in the process. Lockjaw was a bitch he’d rather not meet right now. Doubling up with another rag as soon as it’s retrieved, he slings the broken blade in the direction of an unsuspecting scout, its focus currently occupied by the more reputable and formidable good guys – until the rusted blade rips through a weak spot in the scout’s limited protection, more by a stroke of luck than any skill Carrick might have employed. Three down, three to go. Not counting Triyul, Valaran or the waiting Preklek horde outside, naturally. Carrick might be overmatched but he’s fully in the fray now and, recognizing this, he positions himself in what he figures to be the safest position possible: somewhere between Warren and Lirithen. He might be young, but he’s certainly not stupid; they’ll give him the most cover while he figures out what the hell to do next.
Jacklin busies herself with licking the tips of her fingers as she fidgets with the fished flask from within her newly-forged breastplate. White bandages had been bucked from shoulder and abdomen, she didn’t need them. Shoulder had been popped back into place and ribs would heal over time. Regarding the arena of battle, once known as Kelay Tavern, Jack ensnares one particular face from the crowd: Warren. Thus, her point of observation was set. Between drains of the worse-for-wear flask, she watched Warren.
Valaran:: The potentially heart-stopping arrow would seem to be headed towards the scholar’s most vital organ before he could even have time to react. As it nears the man’s person, it slams into a nigh invisible barrier causing it to slow and veer to the side as if it were traveling through the densest of liquids. Sparks charge throughout the barrier, however, quickly disintegrating it to little more than residual magic, a useless mist of shining particles floating around the man of learning. No time is given to reestablish his protection; a ball of compacted fumes slams into the mage’s chest, sending him off his feet, into a nearby table, and skittering across the floor. Adrenaline now kicks in; cuts and bruises, none so severe as to incapacitate, would be worried about later. For now, the blood mage sets his sights on the archer and his ‘winds’. With a heavy grunt, the scholar hoists himself back on his feet, careful to dodge any incoming rush of Winds he can only assume will soon follow, and faces the ranger. With a flick of his right wrist, a drop of blood falls from his palm and seems, unlike the dripping blood earlier, to hang in the air. An arcane melody fills the room once more as, with both hands outstretched, the scholar begins weaving his spell with that drop of blood as a focal point. The drop expands at an alarming rate, growing into a fist-sized orb and then a head-sized globe before the incantation’s end. Finally, with little urging from the mage himself, the sanguine entity zips forth. As it nears its target, it seems to burst apart, spraying droplets of blood on anything and everything in its wake. Landing first on a nearby table, the patrons seated there gasp in horror as it eats through the wood like acid in a matter of seconds. One could only imagine what it would do should it touch clothing, weapons, or human skin.
Tsukiko sat back drinking her liquid, with no choice but the loss of a table, which to her luck had missed her completely. She scooted herself back out of the way of these, creatures that seemed familiar, where had she seen them. While scared patrons behind her tried to escape harm they were retreated back into the tavern as the entrance was blocked. Cowering behind toppled tables they hid, cornered like frighten mice. To her this brawl, intrigued her and so she stayed obviously she had no choice either way. Sitting at the corner before the fallen tables she observed, hoping she didn't become more than just a spectator.
Warren:: Triyul’s massive frame twists and contorts to meet the oncoming ranger with both the speed and power to match. Taught muscles flex and extend beneath the alien armor that adorns his green tinted flesh as a sword of duergar design is unleashed with amazing speed to clash with the first of the blades, the parry successful in its ploy to deflect said slash, a quick spin of his own allowing gauntlet covered fist to swing around and be sent on a collision course with Warren’s jawline. The power behind such a blow is enough to cause considerable damage, though this is only a defensive maneuver used to back the ranger up. The true attack comes in a downward thrust aimed towards center mass of the human aggressor. The thick and serrated blade is aided by bioenhanced strength, and knowledge harnessed over years from his former life as the dragon known as Helich. The familiarity he has with this weapon seems to flood back, and the two combatants are now pitted in a battle of skill as twin blades of the ranger meet duegar steel time and time again. Sparks fly as the clash escalates, Triyul feinting to the left and then sending his left knee towards the ranger’s gut, his height giving him an advantage in this. While this battle commences, the preklek warriors advance upon all supporting parties. Lirithen is eyed by two, who flank him on both sides, and while one opts for the gliding dive aspect of a frontal assault, the other opts to wait a few moments before aiding his comrade. The other two leap towards the nearest targets, that being Tsukiko and Jacklin. Both wield swords made from the dark mithril that is native to the duergar realm, while enchanted by means known only to their creator…
Lirithen:: Musical words draw the ranger's attention sharply upon the forgotten mage, emerald eyes widening as they discover the nature of Valaran's unorthodox spell-casting. To add the mounting complications and a sudden rush of nearby air and preklekian cry reveal that the alien aggressors now took notice of him, and were intent on removing the problematic elf. Quick-wit guided Lirithen's actions, cogs turning furiously in his head, cogs that soon had the favoured bow slipping from the tree-born's grasp in favour of throwing his hands outwards into the path of the oncoming alien glider. Legs began to pump into a short livid sprint, before a bend of the knee and kick of the leg sent the male flying forward to meet his would-be assailant. Momentum's clash as the elf dug his fingers into the generic prek's shoulder plating, gritting his teeth as he lifted his legs to force his knees between their bodies and help him force the bioenhanced creature into the path of the spell Valaran released at this moment. A monstrous cry of agony ripped from the beast as the acidic blood ate swiftly through foreign armour and flesh alike, becoming moreso as a flailing claw ripped a jagged cut through mithril and leather alike, slicing a jagged-edged rent in the ranger's beloved coat . Sharp edges cut deep into the beast's hand, and the creature's exotic fluids ran between ruined fingers as the pair landed hard on the ground. Booted feet lashed out against the preklek's bulky form, kicking the ranger into a swift roll away of in evasion of the heavy blade that the wounded preklek's ally brought down upon Lirithen, only to have his arm severed at the elbow by the flashy appearance of a single hand-sickle from it's concealed scabbard within the damaged overcoat. The flailing, wounded animals were quickly forgotten, left to bleed as Lirithen turned his attention again upon Valaran, the path of a second angry charge directly towards the blood magi. The curved blade of his weapon came forward, sharp point aimed to rip through cloth and flesh alike in etch of a horrid wound straight across Valaran's abdomen, the blow supplemented with the oncoming side of the flat palm made by the elf's free hand in a winding chop toward Valaran's throat. Let's not forget the Sacred Winds, who rush forward to tangle around the human's legs, a quick wrap intending to snap the limbs together, holding him tightly in place to prevent physical evasion, and likely causing him to trip backwards should either of Lirithen's forceful blows land.
Warren exhales as the air from his lungs is forced out from within by the sheer force of such a powerful blow, the result of him opting to dodge the flying back fist that was sent his way after having deflected the powerful thrust of the preklek general’s sword. But as if possessed, the ranger uses the attack as a launching point to escape Triyul for the moment to recollect himself. The man, having been lifted from his feet, lands not-so-gracefully upon the tavern floor upon his feet. Within moments he is recovered, a smirk plastered upon handsome features as he finds this one to be quite the advisory. Eager to test his mettle against the leader of the invading race, Alexander leaps back into the fray unhindered by the fact that he may be outmatched, a tragic result of his chaotic nature. Whirling blades dance about in a display of deadly skill, each twirl, each slash, complimented once again by the last, and even though his ribs are slightly bruised, for now he does not miss a step. Once again his scimitars aim to penetrate stalwart defenses, the first launched forth towards the open spot between the helmet and breastplate, right at the neck, the enchanted blade sent to cause serious damage by opening up a main artery in hopes of causing focus to shift. The real threat comes from his offhand, in which the ranger’s aim is to plunge his blade right in the sweet spot between his legs in hopes of spilling innards and ultimately finishing off the threat. While both leaders of the opposing fractions battle rages on, the rangers of Larket quickly move to aid their Queen. A quick diamond shaped formation is made around her, while they know she will deal with her own threat. Crossbows are quickly discarded as issued scimitar is brought forth and steel shields rose up to create an adamant wall between opposing forces and Queen. The preklek warriors would be hard pressed to defeat such a tight and highly trained unit in such a formation, as well as the poor preklek stupid enough to attack Jacklin has found himself cut off and left alone with a woman who is more than capable of defending herself…
Jacklin hadn’t been expecting a bill in the chaotic play currently performing in Kelay. Jack was no actor, but she was a warrior. And that, well, it was better than nothing. For a moment longer the elder human indulged in the pleasantries of a flask filled with amber, a few droplets escaping parted maw and dribbling down her chin. It was a round of liquid courage at its finest, although Jacklin was made of fifty-percent courage by this stage in life. Tucking the emptied flask back into its secret abode, the Executioner finally managed to right herself. Knees cracked and bellowed in response to the sudden engage of action, but all protest was ignored. The old human wasn’t sitting back down until either legs were ripped from body or she was felled by the lizard fellow currently lunging toward her lithe frame. That? It wasn’t going to happen. With left hand she clamped fingers around the top rung of her former perch, throwing the generic piece of construction in an attempt to waylay the path of the Prek, though she knew it wouldn’t derail the vicious beast too long. Uabhasach found use again in the hands of its master, twice in a matter of days. Deft digits slipped to her backside and maneuver worn leather binds, fastened to her plate, until Uabhasach was fully unhindered. Serpentine those calloused fingers were, wrapping around the neck of the thin metal instrument and bringing it into the breath of light beneath the dim illumination of the Tavern. Both light and din invigorated by user and used. Adjusting view toward the nearly-there Prek, the elder human waited patiently. Alerted to a few lackluster snarls escaping the oncoming opponent, and droplets of thick drool escaping both lips and nostrils of her attacker, the Queen did nothing. Finally, as the enlarged lizard came within arms reach she allowed its own brand to be met by Uabhasach, rolling tastefully aside in a clamor of steel against mithril. Unfortunately, Jack couldn’t comprehend the massive claws swung in a knee-jerk displeasure at having its attack thwarted by a simple human. And there, across her neck, tore the sharpened nails. From collarbone to chin it sliced through the supple skin without a hitch. Without so much as a pause in production, the claws finished their art against the flesh of the Executioner and drew back. Jack, in turn, entered her own knee-jerk reaction: Killing. With the impact of the claw against her neck she’d turned, the blood creating a scene much worse than it was. Luckily the lizard hadn’t punctured too far down, but she allowed the others to imagine so. Bringing Uabhasach back around to the front she shifted stance, lizard right behind her. With one quick snap Jack had brought the spear between her legs and into the gut of her Preklek admirer. On heel she spun then, letting hands fall from her spear, and gripped the shoulders of Sam (I named him Sam.) Using surprise and strength, of course, Jacklin had that lizard on the floor too fast for thought. Jerking Uabhasach from the enclave it’d caused in the abdomen of Sam and slamming it, apex first, into where the heart-box should be. With bare foot placed against the scaly neck of Sam she waited, smearing the blood from her neck onto her face by accident. It was always worse than it was.
Carrick doesn’t really grasp what’s hurtling toward Lirithen, and him by proxy, but whatever it is, it’s definitely not hugs and kisses. His first instinct is to cower beneath one of the fallen Preklek scouts at his feet and let the corpse absorb whatever fallout comes crashing all around him, but instead he finds a better patsy: a breathing scout, namely the one headed toward Tsukiko and the other patrons. There’s a thought of going after the one headed for Jacklin, but being as she seems armored up he figures she’s got a better chance to handle herself than the unarmed, petrified patrons. Had he known it was the Queen in jeopardy, he might have chosen differently, but we’ll never know. Turns out his suspicion is right on in either event. “Get down!” Carrick shouts, hinting that Tsukiko and the others ought to dive behind an overturned table or something, anything to take cover. In doing so, however, he gives himself away in his charge after the pursuing scout, who turns to face the oncoming teen. There’s no time for the scout to draw his sword, however, as Carrick is upon him too quickly, but without much of a weapon there’s not a whole lot the novice ranger can do other than poke at the Preklek with the hilt of his snapped dagger, which hardly has enough blade above the quasi-guard to break the lizard’s skin. Instead the Preklek swings at him with the back of his arm, slinging the small young man against the nearest wall. At least Carrick hits a flat wall with the flat of his back; anything else might have been way more painful than what he’ll feel in the morning. At least he distracted the patron-threatening Preklek long enough for someone to do something about it?
Rawnie hadn't need to witness the brawl of lizard and human to know that something was amiss within the popular ale-house, and while she was never found of fighting to save another, the blood she smelt had a unique and all too familiar scent on it, so she directs her gait towards and into the tavern. Steps are hesitant and calculating long enough for those brown eyes to register that the Queen had suffered a blow. Dodging the ongoings of the Fold and company's current scene, the scantly clad, dark skinned gypsy meets Jacklin at her side. "That's a nasty." She mentions, more so towards the woman's neck before turning a disinterested gaze towards the lizard underfoot. "And who's your friend?"
Jacklin wasn’t so worried about the blood trickling down her throat as she was the Larket rangers and Saphuel, head of the line, around Jacklin. The pinging of arrows pelted the already-loud activity enveloping the drinking establishment. Taking note of Nancy and Mesthak, the Queen saw the pair huddled in the corner of the Tavern in an attempt to disengage themselves from whatever was going on. Sapheul turned an eye over his shoulder now and again, always mindful of his master, but his attention was caught elsewhere. His role in overseeing Warren’s brigade of Archers and Rangers that held rapt attention on any Lizards that may try to pass through to Jack took the majority of his interest for now. At the sudden appearance of the face recognized as fairly familiar the human against touched fingertips to marred throat, “I’ll live,” she replies before moving foot to the chest of Sam, “I killed me a lizard. He’s a big one, but he deserved it all the same.”
Tsukiko tilted her head in a ready attack as the scout headed towards her, about ready to jump out of her seat, a voice yelled to her. The voice grabbed the preks attention. She slipped her hand behind her and as the prek, had his back to her she pulled her blue enlighted blade from its sheath. Rushing after the thing now cornering Carrick. She aimed for its neck. A sole standing chair in the way gave her just the height she needed to jump, upon coming down she sliced her sword unto its neck. Biting her lower lip drawing blood as she did so. A loud crunch as her sword didn't penetrate the whole of it's armoured skin. "Shoot." She muttered as she now realized that her sword was stuck. Tugging as hard as she could it backhanded her and she went flying into the air and hitting the ground.
Parsithius :: Parsithius is bloodied, as his following of three knights are, which is more than capable; the sounds outside preceeded his arrival, and by the gore painted upon their platemail armor and distinct weapons there was a battle right outside. The General himself holds the head of a preklek in his grasp, his gauntleted fingers embedded into the skull of the cranium, as crimson liquid drips freely from the severed neck.
Carrick slumps forward as his posterior slams against the hard floor -- the tailbone won’t be quite as bruised as the back, however. The combo blow, however, renders the novice out of the rest of the fray, in all likelihood. He’d gotten one and distracted another. That would have to do for now. As he slumps, Carrick tries to keep a weather eye on the rest of the battle, as it appears to be dying down. It’s a proud day for him, in some respects. Whether he made an impression is anyone’s guess; it’s certainly not high on his list of priorities for now. Carrick shimmies his small frame along the floor as best he can, taking cover where he’ll be out of the way.
Warren ~~ Triyul, or rather Helich reborn, finds himself growing tired of these games as he watches preklek after preklek fall to the growing number of defenders that inhabit the lands. Having learned from past mistakes, the General of the Preklek Army knows when to pull out, and thus quits playing games with his human advisory. With a swift series of feints and parries, the bioenhanced preklek defeats the defenses of the ranger with relative ease, the duergar forged sword he wields plummeting deep within the man’s lower left half of his abdomen. A sinister smirk plasters itself upon alien lips as Triyul walks his prey a few steps back, twin scimitars falling to the tavern’s floors as the manifested warlord calls out to all present. “You may think yourselves safe, fools. But ruin is upon you, and soon Sage shall burn, and shall the rest of this wretched land fall.” As these words escape thin lips, Triyul lunges Warren’s form towards the crowd, while retrieving a small sphere from a hidden compartment in his armor. He tosses it to the floor and a veil of smoke fills the room momentarily, providing the prekleks escape out the window. Within moments the cloud dissipates, and all that remains is several preklek bodies, and Warren’s fallen form bleeding out. The ranger, even near mortally wounded, cannot believe he was bested so easily, and lies there holding his wound and applying as much pressure as he can. He coughs, and blood stains his now pale lips as he begins to fade from conciseness. Things do not look good for the Ranger Commander, though for now, things seem to have settled, the threat gone with Triyul out the window…
Lirithen:: Smoke clouded emerald gaze, but his quarry was so close! A wild, uncoordinated forward lash of the arm carried the blood-thirsty sickle forward on it's inevitable path to snap bones and cut organs to ribbons, leaving yet another foolish follower of the preklek regime lying dead in a spreading pool of his blood! It came as a surprise then, when only more air met the wild scythe of the hand-weapon, leaving the elf stumbling a little to the side in a fight for his own balance. An arm lifted to cover his mouth as a single cough left his lungs, before a blink afforded him a rapidly clearing view of the tavern, and what remained of his target. But a dark, bloody stain on the tavern floor, the fluids from the bodies lying around having been bounded into some sort of... Teleport spell? An elven curse came from a dark mutter, emerald eyes lifting to discern that the mage's need for blood had already killed the wounded aliens he had left in his wake. They were all examined, the rangers, Lady Larket, the cowering patrons, and... “Oh dear,” was the only verbal expression of concern as the tree-born stepped quickly across to the side of the downed Warren, keen eyes tracing the inflicted wound on the commander's lower abdomen. “Damn...” cursed the elf, throwing his hands up to cause his sleeves to recede along his arms before peeling his gloves from his hands. Queasily, he bit his lip. The armour would be problematic to remove... There was no other alternative. Knees bent as the ranger dropped to Warren's side, letting what little divine energy he possessed flow through his body into his hands, causing fingertips to glow an eerie blue. Averting his eyes from the wound a single extended finger was brought down, gracing the surface of Warren's rapidly spilling blood by a hairs breadth before suddenly plunging joint deep into the wound. Energy balled into the extended digit, seeping outwards into the damaged flesh, carefully seeking out broken organ tissue and tentatively mending the inner wound as biological sinew began to knit itself together. Slowly, ever so carefully Lirithen began to withdraw his finger, magic still leaking to seek out and affect the most urgent of repairs, until finally the most vital areas were mended without complication. Warren's blood was smeared briefly across his leggings as Lirithen drew a length of bandage from the pocket of his armoured garment, peeling a length of the cloth away from the bundle and gesturing a nearby Larket ranger to hold the torso of his commander off the ground as the tree-born went quickly about wrapping a suitable length of bandage around Warren's lower abdomen, tearing the strip off with his teeth and hastily tying the two ends securely together before standing to admire his handy work, and grimace at the memory of exploring a human's insides with his finger.
Jacklin stood at grumpy attention beside Rawnie, fingers still absently dabbing at the claw-paths stretching down her neck while cobalt pools searched beyond the rangers and Sapheul. Her neck hurt, her ribs were probably back where they’d started on the injury scale, and a formerly dislocated shoulder had relocated to a town called Massive Afflication. Population, Jack. Not that the Executioner gave any indication of this inner checklist. Instead, the Queen stood as she always did in the afterglow of a decent brawl. Stoic and scientific, calculating the transpiring events without so much as a wince escaping cracked, bloodied lips. “You gotta’ quit bleeding,” she thumped one curiously deep claw mark with a splatter of blood raging outward in spite. If it wasn’t going to stop bleeding by its own volition then Jack would simply let it bleed. Take that, injury. A woman too stubborn to even apply pressure against a wound for fear of the wound gaining authority over her? That was Jack to a tee. Uabhasach was replaced into the hold of strictly-tied leather binds upon finding no immediate danger was likely to catapult itself through the wall of Larket guards and into her. Luckily spear had been strapped in safely before, boiling upwards from the sphere Triyul left behind in his departure, the tipplers spot was packed with an impenetrable smoke. Waving leather wrapped hands in front of her face the brawler stepped forward toward where the line of Larketians and Sapheul stood. After several blind moments the haze of cowardly smoke cleared and brought to life the injured form of Warren lying across the way. This unveiling certainly didn’t sit well judging by the next actions of the Queen. “Get the hell outta’ the way!” stormed the whiskied vocals of Jack, slamming uninjured shoulder into Larket rangers, guards, and even Sapheul himself. Regrettably for the swarthy sentinel of Jacklin, her clamor had caused him a deeply personal meeting with the bloodied slats of Kelay’s floor. Ignoring the face meet-and-greet of Sapheul the elder bounded toward her commander with purpose…only to find the likes of a magician doing the healing. Grabbing several of the Larket rangers by the nape of their neck she pushed them aside as the unknown elf tied off the last of his bandage. Thrusting a hand outward she snatched the chin of Warren and held it firmly, jerking it back and fourth, “Wake up right this second. The magician healed you now open your damn eyes. I’m taking you back to Larket right this second.”
Parsithius is careful, and undeniably so, for his azure eyes slice here and there in the analytical survey of the establishment proper. Meticulous, but satisfied thereafter, the King Consort 'clicks' armored greaves at a steady pace to the downed Saphuel; the gauntlet of the knight grips the elbow of the swarthy guard and with one hefty pull, yanks the downed bodyguard to his feet. The other three knights have taken defensive measures, placing themselves in particular positions -one by the door, and the other two outside of it. Thereafter, the path is cleared to the Queen by the careful cadence of 'click, clack, click' that signals armored greaves touching one another in step. "Your shoulder, Jack. I can take him back."
Rawnie tended to be an obnoxious thing, especially when she wanted something done and done her way. "Jack. Your shoulder." Screw formalities at this point, the woman was being silly. But before action could be taken to keep the woman from further agitating the bleeding wound by flicking or any other means, that fateful veil of smoke festers within the walls of the tavern and everything is blocked from the gypsy; sight, smell... everything useful. But, the retreat of the horde of lizards doesn't give reason for the lycan to chase or to defend herself, so when the Queen moves, so does she. "Jacklin, listen to Parsithius please and let me take a look at that shoulder damnit." Being a new mother, a bad one, but one none the less, brought on the need to protect and the need to fix things when broken.
Warren is stirred from his magically induced slumber by a familiar voice that has plagued his dreams once before. The Queen. Even in sight of death's door the man shall not disobey her commands, and as such, by means of what little strength he has left right now, Alexander awakens to find himself in Jacklin's rather smooth and caring hands. Pale lips form a slight smirk as the mans musters up enough willpower to utter out. " Damn lizards..." Before falling back into his slumber. His wound looked foul, but it was healed considerabley, and his liufe was in no immediate danger. He was deathly pale, a result of his bloodloss, but for now he needed rest. His men move to pick him up, as well as collect his things. He managed to keep them all alive this time. Good thing too, he didn't need another office meeting first day back on the job.
Lirithen stood some short distance away, scowling at his lack of thanks. Magician, Lady Larket said. Far from it, thought the male as he stowed his drawn sickle back within his coat, and moved away to acquire his bow. Slinging the thing over his shoulder, eyes came to rest upon a blade discarded by one of the many felled preklek. Bending forward, his hand stretched forward to take the weapon by the hilt. The craftsmanship was unmistakeable. The Order... And the Archdruid, would doubtless want to see this...