RP:Resistance in Cenril

From HollowWiki

A bolt of lightning pierces the skies and suddenly "they" are everywhere. Gigantic feathery wings flapping fiercely, producing a sound like thunder as several dozen Avians descend from on high in groupings of four. Each Avian quad appears to be carrying a large bulky bundle of silken cloth that they suddenly and unceremoniously drop into three separate locations, Larket, Cenril and Kelay. The citizenry look up to see large white bundles hurtling down to the ground before bursting open midair revealing teams of Fermin parachutists gracefully floating down to the earth. As the daredevil rodents float down they begin lobbing orbs filled with noxious fluid that explodes on impact dowsing nearby buildings in flames of unnatural green and purple. Strangely enough however their battle cry is not the usual "For the Mistress!" but the unfamiliar refrain "FILF forever!", As they do so their Avian allies simply shout "The Orb is ours...." The vicious attack teams then begin to land and butcher anyone in their path...

Almost as if planned as a signal every other sea going vessel in the sea between Cenril and Rynvale bursts into flames and heavy thunder storms light up the sky over the three cities attacked by the Fermin and Avian Alliance. The Avian forces circling overheard swiftly abandon their allies and fly at full speed to the coast of Cenril some of them appear to be driving under the Fishing Wharf....

Eboric arrives before the city's gates at the head of a knot of men, all armed and armored, bearing shields painted read, with Eboric's golden bear emblazoned there. The warlord himself carries his black sword, Eidhur, in one hand, and his elven axe in the other. He is dressed in his war gear, with his masked helmet already strapped on, and he leads his warriors to meet each band of fermin raiders, the big men looking almost comical as they slaughter the rodents.

A warm and soothing voice fills your thoughts and you feel the intense feelings of a being so ancient and powerful it completely overwhelms you. You know deep down it is the voice of the Eternal Tree. "Know this child... soon all of the Keys will be restored and shall be held by ones worthy of fighting a foe that seeks to twist and remake all life in his own image. This attack was but a wheeze to frighten and cow those lacking in valor, for the power of the Fermin and Avian rebels waxes and wanes but the power of nature and life is eternal. Soon when the keys are restored my seed shall be planted in the earth at a location chosen by the three who bear the keys and they shall be rewarded for their efforts. Perhaps then balance of life can be restored and the gift of restoration given to the chosen." With those parting words the warm presence of Eternal Tree leaves you to contemplate what it has said.

Foster catches up with the armor-clad group of Warriors, his nimble legs propelling forth his body in a headlong dash towards the mouth of Cenril. Winded as he is, the Bard still manages to whisper a barely audible note. At least, what was barely audible. With the issuance of that single note, does the wind about a few Fermin suddenly let loose a hum of growing density, crying in response to it's commanders beckon. Like an unseen enemy, a Phantom sent forth on the very winds themselves, that magic cuts unforgivably into the supple flesh of the Fermin. Foster is dissatisfied, made clear by another note that bursts free from his lips, forcing a catastrophic concussion of raw magical might to impact into the knot of Fermin soldiers already cut so by the magically crafted winds. The mist of blood, viscera, and flesh that ensues the only remainder of what once was. "Mighty Warrior!" He calls out to Eboric, "I wish to accompany you!" His breathing his ragged, much akin to the attire in which he finds himself garbed, but that does not seem to deter him. Not a weapon on his personage, Foster assumes the look of a sentinel, back arched tightly, muscles rigid. "I can bolster the strength of your men!"

Eboric, in the midst of the fray, still manages to notice the bard, and the power of his voice as he shreds a group of enemies. The helmeted warlord gives a curt nod, his voice echoing and booming within the confines of the mask as he says, "I will accept. Fall in!" That last order serves for both Foster and the warriors, for the men draw closer together, their shields overlapping as they form a wedge, their leader at the point, a space toward the back left for the bard so that he can be protected by the more melee-oriented fighters to either side. Eboric leads this wedge further eastward, aiming it toward another group of fermin, where the better organization and fighting prowess of his men can cause more slaughter.

Foster nods his head, eyes quickly working out the best possible place for him to position himself in the throng of those heavily armored companions. As the space is spotted, the Bard quickly steps into formation, his voice following in quick response of the newfound rank among these Warriors. Like before, it is a single note, tainted with the magical might of Foster himself. Those unable to easily recognize the enshrouding presence of magic might run amiss of what happens, but the knot of men might begin to feel their muscles renewed. Foster issues another note, albeit this one high-pitched in sound, forcing that earlier fabricated spell to strengthen, much alike the Warrior's would feel their own muscles strengthening beneath its presence.

Eboric, despite his hatred of magic, cannot help but grin as new energy fills his limbs. Thus strengthened, the wedge formation cuts ever further into the mass of raiders, leaving in their wake a slew of corpses. The onslaught is not without cost, however, for even Eboric's highly trained men make mistakes, but there are enough of them to fill in the gaps in the wedge when their comrades fall. The Cenrili soldiers, seeing that this band of men seems to be on their side, fall in as well, creating their own formations to fight off the invaders. "Through the gates!" Eboric calls, leading his wedge onward.

Foster inhales sharply, forcing his own weariness aside in the wake of witnessing the continuing mass of raiders. The summonation of these spells are quite draining, especially when wrought upon such a large group gathered. It is with this realization, that Foster discards the idea of further bolstering all the men; they will continue to feel the previous spell for some time still. The Half-Elf changes up his repertoire, mumbling a chant in a long-forgotten language of his bloodline. Eboric might begin to feel the very air about him lessening, the gravity of the world upon him, if you will. This is to bolster his speed, his body unhindered drastically, so as to better evade and counter those he meets in combat. A spell such as this, is much easier for Foster to maintain, directed so upon one target. The screams of battle berate him, but they do not lessen his concentration, keeping a steady hum to lighten the spirits, a very easy feat, of those he finds himself a companion of. Here and there, he'll sidestep a sweeping blade that comes closer than comfortable, but as of now, he is unscathed.

Eboric's laughter booms out as he leaps forward, recklessly abandoning the formation, now moving too slowly to keep up with him. The werebear lays about with sword and axe, dealing death with both hands, the fermins appearing as though they are moving through water next to the warrior's advanced speed. Blood sprays from the throat of one as Eidhur's tip sweeps through, only to spit another through the chest, the big man's huge strength enough to shatter bone. More Cenrili soldiers converge, then spread out, moving to rid their city of the ratmen. Finding himself in a momentary lull, Eboric unslings his curving warhorn, opening his mask to blow three long, echoing blasts. "The city burns!" He calls to his men, Foster, and those Cenrili citizens not fighting. "Bring water from the sea, from the wells! Form a line!"

Foster 's golden eyes watch in silent wonder, laying witness to the bold strides of battle Eboric performs. Men like him are sung about in taverns, regardless of the amount of magic Foster as invested in him. Buffs can only go so far, when not accompanied by that kind of fearlessness! The horn draws his attention from admiring the battle around, confined in the defensive pocket he's in, if only for his eyes to find what Eboric is talking about. Fire. Lots of fire. Quickly, the Bard abandons his place among those men as they dash away to see to Eboric's command, and he takes up a defensive crouch near a building caked in terrible fire. His voice begins low, nearly inaudible, but with the realization of his powers, reaching their crescendo, so does his voice reach its culmination. The fire on the house before him begins to draw back, like its attempting to stray from the magic enshrouding it, but soon enough it falls in line. Literally. The flames begin to bound from the house, splashing their heat upon the rock-laden road of Cenril and dashing themselves into charred splotches here and there. One house saved, his eyes wander back to the battle at hand... and the Fermin, crooked sword suspended in mid-arc, raging towards him. Foster lets loose a cry, more out of panic than the spinning of a magical web, and that blade sinks into his collarbone. The Half-Elf releases a concussive blast, akin to the sonic force of a Banshee's wail, at the Fermin Assailant, sending the rat reeling into the fires of another building. His face pales visibly, but he grits his teeth and manages to tug free the cursed weapon. This newly acquired wound, coupled with the weariness brought on by significantly depleted mana, serves as the reminder that he must stay with the Warriors; his feet carrying him closer to the throng of allies, quickly going about their tasks.

Eboric is more of a warrior than a firefighter, so while the majority of his men (now joined by fresh troops, summoned by the horn) begin to organize the Cenrili into lines, buckets flying from hand to hand as every available watersource is tapped into, the warlord and a smaller group of warriors patrol around these lines, protecting them from any fermin left in the area. Noticing Foster's wound, the werebear dispatches two of his fighters to stand close to the bard, under orders to keep him safe.

Dyzz rides Warpiggy throughout the city from time to time, looking up some newer gang styles for her pixie mafia to... ahem... appropriate. She also looked out for Raziel's shop, and generally enjoyed the bustling city. But the, everything changed when the fire nation atta.... oops, wrong story. Dyzz was happy go lucky, oblivious, and ready for anything. Dyzz notices things happening. Dyzz is shocked.

Foster offers a smile of appreciation to the two Warriors, grim in appearance, awash as they are in the blood of their trade, whom he finds protecting him. The Bard goes about singing shut that wound, his lips muttering quiet words of healing, whilst a weary eye is lofted to the surrounding area. Once he finishes, he'll painfully roll his shoulder, hoping that everything is still intact - which it is - and assume patrol of the outlying area. The heat from the fires sees to a healthy stream of sweat that runs in rivulets down his back, and cakes his brow in the glistening perspiration, but they are refreshing. That heat holds him upright, alert and ready to descend upon any nasty that deems him worthy of another weapon. This time, he will not be taken off guard.

Dyzz and her hidden pixies bow to the queen!

Eboric's fighters, along with the archers of Cenril, now take up their missile weapons and begin to shoot at those avian teams that remain, the majority of them having already left, their part in the attack mostly done. After some disorganized confusion, the water teams begin to actually have an effect, dousing the fires along the street, targeting mostly houses and shacks on the orders of the warlord who, while he has no authority in Cenril whatsoever, gives off the air of a born commander, so that men seem called to follow him. For his part, he begins finishing off the avians that are shot down, his axe leaving gaping, rotting wounds wherever it touches.

Thea acknowledges the bowing pixies and their apparent leader with a nod of a crowned cranium, eyes then darting about to see where her aid is needed most.

Foster , left without a target to send into the embrace of the afterlife, hastily returns to the main street, accompanied by those Warrior's assigned to his protection. Foster's eyes fall upon the flames once again, and he knows what he must do. The remainder of his magic prowess is sent in the form of a hymn, singing words to create an elaborate, yet sad song. His face is stricken with the effort of it, but his singsong voice is still laced with that magical ability lent to him through his bloodline... and as if in conclusion of that sorrowful song, does the sky begin to cry. Drops of water begin to descend upon the vicinity, splashing and sizzling onto the fires that burn with heated fervor, quenching their thirst. The magnitude of his spell is not tantamount to the entirety of this city, but only the block where he finds himself. Foster drops to his knees, far to weary to remain that otherwise regal, erect posture as before.

Dyzz couldn't believe the sheer brutality of the attack. The Cenril military, some mercenaries, and dead fermin and avians, and fire... so much fire! Warpiggy blanched, and she dismounted to let him run away, carrying the tiny tree ent with him. She had her arsenal about herself, and looked toward the sky, where avians where embattled against ground archers. With the Cenril military trying to shoot them down, she assumed they, and the fermin, where behind the arson, and she drew back and launched her spear, Gae Bolg, Rancor flickering on her hip. The spear spli mid air into a barrage of 30 identical spears, which would all explode when they reached the altitude of the avians, a courtesy of the bone club Rancor... enchanted by herself. The immediate effect would be devastating to what aerial soldiers remained.

Thea watches the mayhem, surreal as it all is just yet. And hot! So much heat that her small lungs struggle with their task. The Druidess' eyes move skyward, watching the rain form and raising her own palms, full lips part to recite ancient druidic words meant to assist the bard's endeavor by bringing more moisture to the clouds. Noting several wounded nearby she composes herself and begins the task of moving to inspect injuries while arrows fly overhead. The Queen instructs her guards to watch over the ailing and a veritable airforce of winged archers appear to the west from Enchantment.

Eboric removes his helmet, allowing the rain to cool at least his face. He is still grinning, alight with the joy of battle. The avians, faced with not only arrows but also a rain of spears, begin to retreat, their rearguard loosing a few attacks of their own. Arrows and spells begin to fall among the attackers, and while their firebolts are largely negated by the rain, a some of their arrows find homes in the defenders, one even slamming into Eboric's shoulder, shivering through the mithril rings of his hauberk. Snarling, the warlord falls back to snap off the shaft as close to the tip as possible. A renewed volley springs up from the ground troops, and the avians retreat a little more. The warlord turns to see the newcomers, but has little time to speak to them at the moment.

Foster forces himself to his feet, the rain refreshing him enough to do so. His golden eyes fall upon Dyzz, watching her send that spear up to the skies, before his eyes shift to Thea. He is not too tired to be completely ignorant of another's magic being wrought by powerful words. An appreciative smile draws across his lips, whereupon he offers her a nod amid the battle still unfolding. The first arrow clatters harmlessly to the ground at his feet, his attention snagged by it. The second arrow thrusts sickeningly into his skin, to protrude menacingly through his thigh. Another wail of pain is brought to pass from his lips, but this wound is not as grievous as the last he had received; he can still feel a dull pain in his shoulder from the hastily stitched together sinew. Foster scoops up a fallen Archer's bow, pulls that arrow completely through the meat of his bone, and the knocks it. The feathers glisten with the gore of it's previous home, but that doesn't deter its flight. The arrow is sent sailing up into the gaggle of Avians retreating, finding a target in the confusion of their hasty escape. Foster grins, feeling as if he as accomplished much today, but drops the bow regardless. He is no archer.

Dyzz had done a lot of damage, but had also drawn a lot of attention. As many avian's fell to her ruthless and hasty assault, she found herself the focus of a goodly amount of vengeful fire, and with no where to take cover. Knowing the attentions are turned towards her, and arrows and bolts of magic are loosed upon her. Thankfully fire wasn't too much of a concern with the sudden shower, but a bold of lightning and a score of arrows were still plenty to get the job done, if she didn't act quickly enough. Not being much for defense usually, Dyzz was hard pressed to put one up, but with the aid of a shrunken head, and a quick incantation, her wards flare and frogs started raining around her and in front of her to absorb blows. Of perhaps a dozen arrows, 8 landed in frogs instead of troblin flesh, and 3 more found their mark. Not the -best- defense, but it had helped, she liked to think. Arrow sunk into thigh, belly, and shoulder, and Dyzz went down on one knee, wards flickering with the force of a lightning bolt that scattered frogs wide and cooked them, and sent her flying as well. It was a good thing she was immune to pain, or she'd probably pass out from this much damage. She landed in a crumpled heap, and weakly started breaking and pulling arrows through, trying to remain still looking under her crimson splashes of hair, little bits of blood caustic on the grass around her. Her pixies stayed away as ordered when she was hurt... her blood could kill them.

Eboric surges back into the fray, but there is precious little of it left. The avians choose to retreat, rather than losing any more men to the growing numbers on the ground, leaving the injured defenders to return their full attention to the fires, which have been contained to only a few blocks of the city. Eboric, trickling blood from his wound, nevertheless joins in, barking orders to the lines of people, encouraging them to work faster, and forcing those faltering to take breaks.

Foster staggers to a nearby crate, placed against the wall of a house bereft of flames. After he does so, the Half Elf waves over one of those Pixie Healers, brought by Thea. "Can you fix me up, darling?" He states to the miniature, albeit undoubtedly female, Pixie. Quickly, the Healer goes about her work, and Foster is left to lean back against the high wall, his breathing ragged. For now, the defense seems to be overwhelming the siege, and he feels he can take a break from the strenuous exertion of battle. It has been a long time since Foster found himself in the fray. It truly is addictive! The Bard winces, feeling the magic course into him, all the way down into his very core. Suddenly, his spirit feels uplifted, renewed, if only minimally. "Thank you, doll." He winks and offers a boyish grin, waving her off. He tests his leg, slow to rise and even slower to walk, but it seems whole again - if only a dull pain remains. He finds Eboric in the din of the chaos, his eyes narrowing on the man. From afar, his magics can still find the Warrior. Foster sings a delicate song, a song of mending; to stop the flow of blood around his wound and also ease his pain. It's all the Bard can do without his mana being completely restored after a long rest. It seems this battle is near to complete. The defense successful in their plight against the assailants.

Dyzz takes care of her own wounds, pulling arrows, applying her own brands of medicines, and keeping calm to accelerate her healing. She watches the goings on, in too rough of shape to help any more... much to her own dismay. She didn't like not being up and able to help with the other efforts. Still, she did what she had too, and tended to her quickly mending wounds, watching those hard at work, note ably the coordinating Eboric, a savage looking man. She couldn't see Foster, from where she was.

Eboric notices the pain begin to lessen, and notices the bard singing once again. As soon as he is certain that the defenders' efforts were as orderly and effective as they can be, he steps aside, moving over to Foster. "You aquitted yourself well out there," he says grudgingly. "What is your name?" He glances back to where the people, bolstered by his soldiers, have begun to douse the last few burning buildings.

Foster offers Eboric a bow, despite it lacking in the grandeur usually accompanying such an introduction, "I am Foster Greyson, a travelling Bard." Rising from that bow, a brow rises, "And who might you be, so that I can properly sing the tales of your might?"

Dyzz sits on her rump, holding her side where the wound in her belly was. It had been quite traumatizing, hitting her liver pretty hard. It would take longer to heal than the other wounds. Still, wasn't much to do but sit there until she was well enough to go get some much needed food.

Eboric grins, inclining his head in response to the bow. "I am the Aethling Eboric, son of Penda, the Titan of Winter. Tell me, Foster, do you currently serve a lord?" The last fire turns to steam, and the men and women of Cenril take a moment to cheer, before they begin to disperse, heading to pick up the scorched pieces of their city.

Foster smiles, nodding his head, "A suitable title, I suppose. Don't be offended if I fluff it up a bit in song." After the conclusion of Eboric's question, Foster take a moment to size himself up, taking in his ragged apparel, "I'm afraid I do not, Eboric, son of Penda." His delicate hands come to clasp behind his back, waiting for what might come next. The city-folk, going about cleaning their damaged city, are completely ignored by those black-flecked golden eyes of the Half-Elf.

Dyzz picks her nose. Not much else to do, anyway.

Eboric leans up against a wall - one largely left alone by the flames. "Well, you have shown your value to me, and if you are willing, I have a place for you in my warband; we need a good bard, especially one that knows how to bolster us in battle."

Foster glances away from Eboric for a moment, to calculate the weight of the offer held above his head. It truly is enticing. "Would I be free to come and go as I please? I do not do well under restrictions..." Smiling, Foster's hands unfold, if only to offer a shrug, "I am a wandering Bard after all."

Dyzz sniffs her finger, then wipes it off, and crams it up her nose to the last knuckle. Gonna pick a winner, that way. Her eyes wander in opposite directions.

Eboric shrugs his shoulders. "I allow my thegns a great deal of freedom, but when I do give an order, I expect it to be obeyed swiftly. Your job would mostly consist of accompanying us into battle, to do what you did here to give my men the edge, and also to gain a first hand account of what happens, that your songs can be as true as possible."

Foster releases a slow sigh, "I'm afraid that isn't for me. While I enjoyed accompanying you and your men this day, it is not in me to take orders. I'm no soldier, my friend." He offers Eboric an appreciative smile, "However, I wouldn't mind accompanying you as a hire-on from time to time, should that suit to your liking." The smile grows in earnest, "A man of your ability would have plenty of songs to sing of, no doubt."

Dyzz does indeed manage to pick a winner. And she eats it.

Eboric nods his head once. "Ah, well. It is not for everyone, after all. However, I do gladly pay for good songs, and if you sing of what happened here today, you will be well rewarded. And I will find you again, if I decide to do anythign else incredible and valiant." The big man grins, and pulls one of the golden arm rings from his arm. He hands it to the bard. "I look forward to hearing the song, Greyson." With that, the big man and his soldiers head back westward, out of the burned town.