RP:Sauriangate IV: Chaotic Good

Part of the Sauriangate Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: Saurians galore. The Primal Alpha responsible for this entire arc. And some very vengeful spirits. The Warrior's Guild, joined by Dyraxdiin, ends a war and pays the price for that victory.

Venturil: Traveling East Along the Barrows

The plan is put into motion at dawn’s first light. As Emrith, Rorin, Ameno, and Eirik suit up as they see fit and acquire necessary provisions, Lionel taps on Khitti’s guest-wing door with a late delivery from Alvina. When the door cracks open, he waves one of the most magnificently-crafted bows the realm has ever seen. Light and with the appearance of glass, black ice is laced throughout and its arrows will freeze gruesomely on impact. Yet it cannot be wielded without tremendous strength -- strength which Khitti possesses. “It’s already seen some action, but I’ve made sure it doesn’t have a scratch on it. I’ll explain some other time. Let’s mosey.” He winks, and they join the rest of the team. Once all are gathered, he glances across their lineup with a proud smile. “One more mission and this war is over. One more march and one threat to peace is dealt with. And that’s on you. The Warrior’s Guild has fought this war for months now, and it ends today. Let’s kick some saurian ass.” It’s not the most inspired speech, but it is distinctly Lionel. And right now, he needs to be the confident leader he projects. When they depart Frostmaw, their course takes them through Craughmoyle Pass and on through the west. Some will ride wyverns, although Khitti, at least, will run. It’s a hard journey and the sun’s final amber rays are giving way to the still of night by the time the guild reaches Venturil. Here in this harshness, Ameno serves as guide, the wyverns kept far behind. The draconian is a native of this country, and his scouting will be invaluable. A disquieting silence pervades, as the crags and canyons end and humid swampland is reached. Thick mist, seething and carrying ethereal whispers, descends upon the traveling party. “Stay close,” Lionel warns. This is where Ameno has led them. Somewhere in this expanse, the Primal Alpha, that vile creature responsible for the saurian attacks, is lurking. It’s now or never, but so far, all they’ve found is a dark moody atmosphere.

Khitti had stared at the bow in awe as it was handed to her, but as she were likely the only heading there on foot (silly mortals and their slowness), she saved the inspection of the weapon for later after it’s second official use. Equal parts shadowstepping and vampiric agility are used to reach their destination, making sure not to go so fast as to lose the wyverns above. She still manages to get there first, however, waits patiently, and listens to Lionel’s orders once the party is gathered. The smell of reptilian folk were a strange thing to the vampiress, despite spending quite a long time in a cave owned by a dragon, but at least she had that deft hearing and eyesight that, at least, faired a little better than the rest of the group in this fog. The newly acquired bow is at the ready, the redhead falling back into her old ways as that huntress that’d been handpicked for the Rangers Guild by Orikahn himself, her steps careful so as not to tip off the saurian to the oncoming storm that was the Warriors Guild.

Ameno garbed in his dark blue garments had left Frostmaw behind returning to the heart of his homeland, now as he peered through the dark mists, the vapor freezing in contact with his breath, he listens more than he looks holding his quarterstaff out like a blind man's walking stick making sure that those he guided would not stumble or fall. His ear to the ground he listened and sure enough he could hear the very heavy vibrations of something of great weight moving, that came north of his group, along with smaller ones. They were coming from the north, and they needed to be ready. He turned to face the group, "they are close, I estimate 1/4 a mile from us and heading this way."

Rorin acquired new pieces for this mission. He had personally scouted the enemy with Ameno and his assessments lead to some interesting additions. The speed of the saurians and their wild nature required speed and intuition. A new mask fronted his helmet of a strange design. It was entirely reflective made not of glass but of crystal and polished mythril. The masterful craft was both a perfect fit and completely smooth where it covered the entirety of Rorins face as well as a bit on all sides. It had been something of a gift to Rorin from the master smith of the academy when the paladin made time to learn as much as he could about the dwarfs craft in the past week or two. Rorins sight was greatly improved, while just as if not more protected. Silver pauldrons sat about his shoulders, with a breastplate and back armor, new silver gauntlets and grieves as well. Rorins tan coat trailed out with splint mail covering its ends while dungarees tucked into the grieves. He seemed one step closer to a full suit of mail, appearing more the true paladin everyday. Not a lance or a shield sat about his hips but two broad swords- one silver one iron- were belted there instead with now three of his particular throwing weapons known as glaives. Pouches as well two of which contained powerful antivenoms and potent antidotes. He was if nothing entirely prepared for everything except of course for riding a wyvern! Rorin had no idea what he was doing and felt like a flea nearly shaken off a beast every bump of the ride. The paladin-hopeful was glad to be on the ground even in the most foreboding of territories. This place was not unfamiliar to him in tone for even in these recent days he had trekked through plenty of foggy quiet grounds. Rorin followed Ameno in proper formation and managed to see quite wall as the tendrils of mist peeled away from his mask. Hands twitched tightly near his weapons. The squire readied himself for what was to come through clearing his mind with deep breaths. Keep mind around you, know your movements, the words of a ranger-trainer echoed quietly through his mind while behind the mask the young mans clear grey eyes were focused and sharp. No mistakes. No funerals this time. Rorin knew how to move quietly and here the grayness of his equipment blended in eerily with the mist. He would appear almost a ghost in the mist where he traveled keeping to Amenos estimate and to the left on accounts of his main weapons hand.

Emrith is no slouch when it comes to footspeed, being both an elf and a vampire. Eschewing an aerial arrival, the spell-blade remains grounded, wrapped in his dark cloak and all but invisible to the naked eye. He has ingested a quantity of a potion which will mask what natural scent he possesses--or, more accurately, will project about him the scent of baked rock, humid mist and old vegetation, the very smell of the Venturil wildlands themselves. When he pops out of the pass through the mountains and makes his way to the agreed-upon rendezvous position, he is just in time to hear the draconian's words. Turning his face northward, Emrith flares his nostrils, takes in a deep breath, then shakes his head. Nothing. This confounded potion might well be foiling his own rather sharp sense of smell. No matter. They will come, and a massacre will ensure. As silently as he can, Emrith unlimbers his shortswords, Heleg and Nahr, from the scabbards on his back, then unconsciously adopts the opening form of stone stance. He will not remain in this defensive position long, but for now, it suits. The man flicks his eyes across the various others nearby, then reaches up deliberately and fastens the jade clasp at his throat without a word. Those present should by now not be surprised when the vampiric elf disappears completely, swords and all. "Mind," he says quietly. "These swords are sharp." A warning for people not to get too close, quite useless under the circumstances given how nigh-undetectable he is. Emrith, however, has a remedy for this. Clamping Nahr's hilt against his hip for a moment, Emrith begins dipping his hand into a pocket of his cloak, coming up with innocuous-looking stones, each carved in two different places by two distinct runes. He begins lobbing them into the air, ensuring that they are quite visible. "Each take one. If you possess it, you will see me."

Eirik 's frigid silver gaze hardens in the mist; heavy breaths do visibly push the thick cloud of fog with every exhale. The Lycan stands, clad in new provisions, armor and weapons alike. Upon his arms, blackened chainmail sleeves weave into a pile of wolf furs over his steel pauldrons. Steel greaves cover the tops of his black leather boots and die just below the knee. Tied to his hip and carried in a leather baldric lies a one-handed long sword aptly named Brann Forbruker; its name coming from his native tongue and meaning Fire Eater. Clasped in his left hand is a steel wrapped, pine round shield and painted with the tribal runes from his homeland. Beyond the armor, he wears nothing more than a silver stitched black leather jerkin and cotton drab. The heavily scarred Northman, before coming, performed his own ritual to the ancestor spirits; painting himself gray in an ash based concoction. The Berserkers fearsome appearance is something like a conquering invader climbing off that Wyvern and into the mists. As if he is part of some foreign legion of black-hearted raiders. This was partly true, for he stood among the Warriors guild ready to bring a violent end to the so-called Saurian alpha. If one were to scrutinize the man, they might also notice a rather large gourd attached to his hip. Though this particular item looks to be booze, they would be completely wrong. For inside sits an oil, which was brought for a purpose known only to himself. Eirik takes the offered stones offered by Emrith, wondering how they functioned? Ameno's early words register in his mind, and Brann Forbruker is drawn. The blade covered in runes, but beyond that looks to be nothing more than a simplistic weapon. The greatsword the Lycan carried is left in Frostmaw, due mostly to his lack of experience with the weapon. Eirik would stay close to Lionel, following his commands to the letter.

Dyraxdiin s wings touch the sky in an embrace long missed, the occasional rolling cloud to part with his passage. The great wyrm studies the ground below and the sky afore him in anticipation of those he comes for. The Saurians were lurking somewhere around here, he knew. The land this side of the mountains is always thick with the smell of his kind, but this spot is heavy with it. As he approaches the area with the Warriors Guild below, the great wyrm begins to circle in long, sweeping arcs - alike a vulture on high in grim anticipation of a meal. Unable to penetrate the heavy fog with gaze alone, Dyraxdiin flies low, all the while speaking archaic words in the guttural language of the Saurians. Despite his overwhelming size, the gray dragon lands gracefully upon a rocky outrcropping jutting up just high enough to remain above the mist and shapeshifts back to his simple robed human appearance. His hands continue in place of where Saurian words leave off, conjuring a great web above the mists. He can smell the few younger races below, save for perhaps Emrith, who it seems understands a bit of the Saurian strength of smell. Strings of sinewy mana flow forth from the mage, stretching ever onwards and merging together, if only to separate and spread further once more. The mana twinkles in stark contrast to the mist below, as it reaches to the ends of the nearby fog, forming roughly a 100 foot blanket of mana. With a bead of sweat upon his brow, the dragon-turned-human completes the spell in a motion of finality, hands to come together at the palms and fingertips, and closes the arcane web, leaving it dormant and relatively undetectable, unless someone was searching - a trick he learned in his younger years. Quickly, he places a magical hook and line upon the web and begins descending from the hill he is upon; this provides a continual, albeit slow drain of his energy, which in turn keeps the web intact and malleabe to his whim. In a matter of moments, he comes into contact with the group, the web above feeling the spirits of those beneath its embrace, acting as a passive radar of sorts for the time being. Through the fog, he can make out the one leading them to be Ameno, the draconian he had met earlier, who informed him of this battle. Silently, the mage will fall in line with the troupe, a firm mental grip kept upon the string that holds the lurking spell.

Lionel taps Hellfire’s prismatic Frostmawian scabbard instinctually at the sound of Ameno’s report. Previous encounters with the saurians, as well as the faith he has in his comrades, are enough to steel his nerves and give him the edge here. His stance is loose, his fighting style having always favored bold swift rushes. With a few calculated steps, the Knight-Commander takes his place ahead of the group in the precise direction Ameno has ascertained, catching Emrith’s stone and watching the elf pop into existence from his skewed perspective. A brow is lifted. “Handy.” Slowly, in a deliberate horizontal motion, Lionel withdraws his fabled blade. That prismatic scabbard seems to glisten with the heavy dew of the marshes, like ripples on a pond, but Hellfire itself is a black-steeled menace which has seen more battles than even Lionel himself can remember. He wields it one-handedly, a seemingly impossible feat for a man so lithe and a sword so great, but in holding, his arm does not appear particularly stressed. Dressed in his thin black silks, with an even thinner sheet of mithril underneath, he does not seem some shiny knight, but rather the heroic killer that he is. He is chiseled just right for long sprints and light sword swings, and just now, as the saurian herd approaches, he swings Hellfire forward and its immaculate steel billows into a midnight-blue flame. “Signal fire,” he says, dryly. The stampede is louder, now, but so many of those stomps are light of hoof and quick, suggesting a pack that is predominantly small in size and lethal-fast. “Keep tabs on my location. It should be awful obvious with me holding this thing like a torch.” The creatures, closer and closer -- just fifty meters away, now! -- are beginning to howl, scream, roar as Hellfire’s blue beacon slides into view beyond the dense mist which still separates the combatants. “Spread out. There’s a whole lot more of ‘em than we bargained for.” He sighs. “There always is.” Suddenly, he wishes Krice and Brand and Hildegarde and Raphaline were here, too. Hellfire’s flame shifts into a warning, orange and then fuchsia, and then back to blue. Something nigh-imperceptible has alerted the spirit within the sword. It’s Dyraxdiin’s trap, but Hellfire is attuned, not vocal, so it’s not like Lionel will be able to say just what it is that’s going on. Instead, he glances around for the source, but cannot determine it. “This mission’s getting weirder by the minute.” And it’s the last thing he’ll say, too, because in a tremendous display of agility, three raptor-like saurians leap from the mist, closing the gap and extending their hooked claws in search of flesh. Lionel’s flesh, and Eirik’s beside him, and Lionel has time only to raise Hellfire all the higher, catching one and searing its meat before it can grapple him. He moves defensively toward Eirik, and the pair will contend with not two raptors but four -- two more leap from the mist, one on either side, and they snarl and hiss and envelop their prey. Elsewhere, things will not be any easier. More raptors jump, but they’re coming from all sides, having cleverly surrounded the guild members. Two to Rorin, two more to Khitti, but one gets skewered by Emrith’s blades mid-hop. Heavier prints fall behind the creatures, and their shape is soon revealed: three large beasts, dragon-like but short-armed and with sweeping tails. For now they do not strike, content to watch the smaller and more agile saurians do their dirty work. None of these creatures are the so-called Primal Alpha.

Ameno soon finds himself whacking raptors. Using his his metal quarterstaff he whacks one under the snout, and another he thrusts the end at ones temple, all the while backing up to the south. As he backs up he regains ground as he moves his hand to take out more as he spins the staff to gather momentum. Surely there was more to this a mere frontal assualt surely, if the Primal was as inteligent as they he and rorin had seen he wouldn't just send the hoard forward without an alternative plan. Hearing the roar of the spinosaurus charging he yells, "Spinosaur at your 3" Just as he manages to get it out he feels a stabbing pain in his back and soft guttaral voice in his ear. "You honestly didn't think I'd make it that easy on you?" and feeling the blade ripped out of his lower ribs, he bends to his knees, as the shadow moves back into the dark mist. "Do not... under... * cough* estimate ... them!" he manages coughing blood. But manages to try to rise and fight on.

Khitti , beneath that hooded duster made from Raiez’s shimmering blue scales, a wry smirk at Emrith’s admittance of his swords being ‘sharp’ went unseen. What else would they be? Made of marshmallow? As one of the stones thrown by the vampiric elf starts to land in her general direction, she catches it easily and pockets it into her coat for safekeeping. Things seem to be going smoothly, and all their ducks in a row, until she heard the whispering. Reddish brows furrow beneath her hood, as dark eyes scan the area. That can’t possibly be good. Whatever sort of spirits these were, they didn’t feel like the ones in Frostmaw. Most of those had been pretty passive. The ones here in the barrows of Venturil were desperate, their cries like that of a banshee’s wail. Khitti stops in her path, falling to the back of the line, fingers twitching with anticipation around the bow she held in her right hand. Suddenly, she wished she had that violin of hers, the instrument had calmed the ghosts in Frostmaw, but now was not the time for it--there was definitely going to be a fight soon and she was no bard. And then the saurians were upon them. None of this was going to be easy, would it? Just as saurian number one leaps at the redhead and comes within a foot of pouncing her to the ground, a massive ball of purple and black shadowfire shoots forth from her left hand, enough to singe and distract both saurian that had made their way to make a meal of the vampiress. No sooner are they both recoiling from the flame does she let loose an arrow--not one, not two, but three--in rapid succession, two to the initial lizard that’d tried to pounce her, and one to the second for even thinking he could join in. Gods’ damned lizards. She’d had her fill of them for the next millennia. Shards of ice sprout from the wounds her arrows had caused, literally chilling the already cold-blooded creatures to their very bones.

Emrith :: Battle is its own peculiar version of chaos. In one moment, Emrith has the lay of the land, the locations of all of his allies, and is mapping the approach vectors for all potentially hostile targets. In the next moment, all hell has broken loose, with vicious little saurians everywhere. They are almost certainly unable to see Emrith, to sense him at all in fact, and this is the elf's greatest advantage. He is no great beast like Dyraxdiin, no decorated champion like Lionel. He sets out into the melee at a dead sprint, adopting the fluid form of water stance as he moves. After the first nearly-accidental skewering of a raptor upon Heleg's tip, Emrith makes a point not to engage unless he must; the sheer number of raptors may prove a problem, but the vampiric spell-blade has already noticed the larger dragon-like creatures, and knows somehow that they are more vital. He makes a beeline for them, unseen, unheard, unsensed. He sets upon one with a flurry of attacks, shearing into its forelegs and spraying himself and the surroundings with dark blood. Flame stance, with its fury and its dizzying array of attacks, serves him well here; the elf would almost appear to be dancing, could any but see him do it. The first dragon creature is bleeding out from the ruins of its legs before the second, realizing what is taking place, charges, head down, jaws agape. Emrith tenses his legs, coils his muscles and leaps at the penultimate moment, clearing that lowered dragon-like head and landing spread-legged on the beast's neck. From there he drops to a seated position and drives both shortswords inelegantly inward and downward from either side, acting for all the world like a pair of scissors on the drake's throat. Heleg on the left, Nahr on the right, meet in the middle even as the beast's trajectory causes it to crash into its partner. Steel cliks against steel, and the drake's head spills free, and Emrith falls from the stump of its neck into the carnage below. Thrusting his legs downward, he hits the ground with a crunch and a curse, then arrows back into the melee, swords flashing. Flame stance again. There are too many, and that last showy display is likely not to work a second time.

Rorin experienced Emriths presence before. A strange being that made the squire a tad nervous. Still it was reassuring to know they travelled with a number of skilled members to the guild though Rorin refused to be comfortable in his stance. This was not the time to be relaxed in any manner. Rorin would gesture to catch one and he valued the ability to keep track of each associate. Staying clear of Emriths double blades would be a wise decision for sure. Half of the attendees Rorin had not known and so he took the time to measure his companions on this quest. Khitti had speed and power, but appeared as a renegade. Emrith much the same, though he perhaps seemed more sly. Eirik... was dangerous. Large and powerful but loyal. That loyalty was of the utmost importance. Dyraxdiin was perhaps the least expected as a powerful dragon mage. It gave the boy some wonder however as to how he tied into all of this. Lionels sword is aflame. So things have begun. Rorins fingers grasp his glaives as two raptors appear, their speed deadly but Rorins barrier awaited. First he withdrew a glaive and flicked the three blades out while second hand awaited near his sword. These creatures were fast and smart- so Rorin needed tactic. He faked near one with the sword and then with the glaive towards the other, goading one to attack. As soom as it did the barrier came up, and with it's flash of light a saurian went down. He countered the strikes of the second and slashed at it in retort. A quick throw happened and the glaive circled the creature towards its brethren. Rorin turned in a compass slash and fell back to catch his weapon on the return. Most likely the beasts had been felled but who was to say? These creatures are ancient and no one knew what to expect to come next.

Eirik could hear the Saurians approach, his heartbeat raises. Their steps thunderous, berating his sensitive ears like war drums, egging him on. These sounds push the dreadnaught onward and ever forward. Lionels last words fall upon the deaf ears of his shield comrade. In a stupefying instant the point of impact is here, and his stance shifts, legs widen and mind twists into a form of rage. Eirik leans back and spills forth a vicious roar more bestial than human; neck bulging, spittle flying freely from his ashen mouth. The Berserker frenzies in but a heartbeat of time. Runic shield raises high while sidestepping for added protection. The raptors claws hit the shield mid stride and rake it with lethal intent, marring its surface and leaving deep grooves upon it. Brann Forbruker is swung with all his might at the abdomen of the beast who came for him, "Ignite," he bellows. The weapon mentioned, springs to life in a fiery assault, but much different than Lionels own. It's flames spitting, and hissing, burning out the very air around it. It blazed uncontrollably like the Berserker himself, near red in color; the runes etched into it glowing white. The searing blade digs deeply into flesh, using the raptors speed against it with a violent disregard for its life. It wails in searing pain, howling at the attack. Suddenly the wolf is upon his mind, but no shift would come. The curse screamed like fireworks in his minds eye, foaming frothing, begging to be released. Yet, such an ominous thing does not happen. The warrior shifts on foot, stepping closer to Lionel in an effort to fight at his back. Little did his commander know, but the Berserker had made him a shield brother in this moment. There he stood, a beacon of fiery light like his commander, encircled by the enemy and not lacking any form of courage. Ears pick up on two more as they leap in. Luckily for Eirik, putting his back to Lionel grants him passing vision of the next assault.

Dyraxdiin , already drained significantly from the web above, growls deep in his throat as the group is beset upon by raptors. There are many of them indeed, but they are clearly just fodder to wear the group down. The trap waiting overhead is left as is, following Dyraxdiin like a personal cloud. It is the three larger Saurians that catch his eye through the mists with their approach, though it seems they are already assaulted by an invisible source - Emrith. Instead, Dyraxdiin turns his attention back to the raptors, and even though his mana is continually draining, the mage sets about battle in the fasion befitting a liason to the Mages Guild. Lightning. From his hands arc a shattered blue light, to lance into one raptor and chain into its compatriot when they spring towards him. The mage does as anyone would afterwards and scrambles away to the side, more fearful of getting caught in the after-effect of the lightning than having his hide peeled back by vicious Saurians. The lightning chains back and forth until it dies out, along with the two targets just as they hit the ground. The din of battle is crisp upon the air, the mage breathing heavily already - he is feeling full-well the effects of keeping this great web alive and considers using it to pin the raiding raptors and bolster his allies. For now, he rises to his feet, while his right hand pulls his staff out of the air itself - lending its power to his and enabling him to keep up in the fight for a time longer. While this brood of Saurians are no kin of his, he does not take pleasure in their slaughter - just how many more of them are there?

Hildegarde could not venture off with her warriors to face against the saurian threat, she had matters of state to attend to. She had been assured that her presence wasn’t necessary anyway, given the fine number of warriors in attendance and those who led the group. They should be fine. But something was niggling at Hildegarde, a sensation of worry that would not abate regardless of her numerous meetings and discussions of security, money, all the things needed to make a kingdom tick. Hurrying from a meeting rather rudely, the knight departed from Frostmaw in her most truest of forms. Swooping low and through the apparently friendly magics of another, the Silver dragon suddenly appeared to clutch a saurian beast in her mighty talons and cast it aside as if it were a mere toy. When the beast glided close to the earth, it seemed to shrink; roll and then disappear entirely to leave only the red headed woman in its stead. Hildegarde hopped to her feet, pulling her halberd free and swinging it with a mighty ‘hruargh!’ to sever the head of a passing creature. “Rally!” she cries to the Warriors. The Silver cast her eye about to catch familiar faces and examine briefly the health and wellbeing of her comrades. Those in the greatest need would find the Queen of War fast approaching to assist.

Lionel brings the fight to the larger saurians now, his blue-flamed weapon surging into a redder tint and blasting infernal pillars toward the creatures Emrith has wisely targeted as they slash with their large claws and throw weight into their tails in sweeping motions. The Knight-Commander is forced, on more than one occasion, to make good use of his supernatural speed and trail swiftly out of the way of one of those tails, but months of practice against these beasts is affording him a clear lead. He’s faster, he’s nimbler, and right now, he’s stabbing into a big saurian’s gut and climbing up its backside, there to impale it in the head just like a certain silver-haired enigma once did. Elsewhere, Khitti and Rorin and Emrith are scoring victories galore, proving unequivocally that the Warrior’s Guild has improved considerably not just against this strange threat but in their abilities to operate as a team. This first rush of saurian opponents is being dealt-with not only effectively but with seasoned finesse. As Lionel leaps from his falling victim before its crash shakes the earth like a tremor, he begins to encounter that dastardly sinking feeling that everything is going a little -too- smoothly. Yet there are setbacks in this skirmish. A dozen-odd meters away, Ameno loses his vision to blurriness, his eyes unfocused. He’s losing blood from a nasty wound, but in all the panic, it is unlikely anyone will notice. Ameno’s staff falls from his hand and his body rolls down a slope; at this point the draconian is not conscious enough to care what happens next. As he rolls to a stop, his eyes gaze upward and he spots two large raptors. One is marked blue, and the other is scarred gruesomely. The blue raptor crouches down, examines Ameno, and turns its head. In a foreign tongue only Dyraxdiin might recognize -- and only if Dyraxdiin is close enough, of course -- it will opt to bring Ameno to their camp, away from the battlefield. With that, the Venturilite draconian is gone, perhaps never to be seen again. Still, all things considered, this is going well.

Most of the saurians have been dispatched, but the Primal Alpha is still nowhere to be found -- curious, this, but an answer is soon made manifest. In all the fighting, all the uproar, the remainder of the pack has moved in an arc to encircle. From the south, thirteen raptors leap out of mist, and from the east and west, thirteen more. It’s a wild hunt now, the creatures leaping and pivoting and snarling toward every fighter, but an obvious leader emerges. One-eyed, leaner and yet bigger, and hanging back from the bloodbath his underlings hope to cause, the Primal Alpha scans the area. There is a cold, calculating gaze from that one eye. The beast is intelligent, and it is strategizing, and its guttural snarls will be like words to Dyraxdiin. “Carve them to pieces. Feint, but then attack the leader in unison.” The creature, with its rows of sharp teeth, almost seems to smirk in the satisfaction of assuming none of its humanoid targets will catch on to the tactic. Certainly, Lionel himself does not know, but Eirik is now beside him in valiant defense, which is a very good thing indeed because the two raptors leaping down upon them soon become eight as the Primal Alpha’s plan prevails. Lionel swings Hellfire in a speedy circle, billowing more flames into the air to catch various saurians as best they can while he hacks off the head of another. Together, they’ll fight, and everyone still standing will have their arms full with further raptors. But frankly, it’s about to become irrelevant.

The Primal Alpha has not united the disparate packs of roving saurians for nothing. The Primal Alpha is clever, and brutal in its executions. It has enslaved its kin and kept them under proverbial leash for twenty-five years. It saw an opportunity in the political hardships between Frostmaw and Larket, and it had hoped to implicate Frostmaw or Larket -- either would be fine, really -- in the dramatic events at the Northern Sage. Instead, the Primal Alpha’s main army was left obliterated thanks to the efforts of this sickeningly compact Warrior’s Guild. Every last one of these creatures has the raptor reeling in abject disgust. Ambition has been cut short, but in time, they will rebuild, and they will surely spread across Lithrydel in cold-blooded revenge. For now it will be enough to know these meddlesome humans and elves and lycans and pathetic excuses for dragons will soon be dead. And this is the second-to-last thing that ever passes through the Primal Alpha’s reptilian mind. What follows is utter chagrin and disorientation. Its lone eye gazes upward, where it espies Hildegarde, rallying her allies at a well-chosen moment -- but surely, this is not the cause of such terrible pain? The Primal Alpha loses its footing, slumps to the loamy ground, and dies in total shock. Raptors screech in alarm, their attacks lessened as they process what has just happened. From behind the corpse of the fallen leader, a lone figure emerges, human-like in stature but glowing a harsh greenish, and with pockets of flesh missing to reveal the bones underneath. Its mere touch has doomed the saurian it has dispatched. The figure howls to match the saurian howls of anguish, and out of the ground in all corners, more of its kind climb up and rush. The air grows heavier still, and a joint screaming from these undead beings is enough to pop ears. The raptors will have nothing of this noise, ceasing their assaults and circling wildly, attacking only rarely, and most times, dying. Only their claws can seem to do much damage, and even then, the undead are spongy in what remains of their meat, and they seem not to care that they’ve been struck. What was only moments ago a battle of men and women against saurians has suddenly become something else. The undead sprint, and there must be no less than thirty in all, and some are making for Rorin, some are making for Khitti, some for Lionel and Eirik. Some for all, and if they should touch anyone, well, that someone will surely die. -This- is chaos. A three-way no-holds-barred fight for survival. Khitti was right to be worried about those ghostly whispers.

The world around Khitti seemed to shift into utter chaos. How could a silly raptor be so smart? Thankfully Hildegarde arrived when she did. Also, thankfully, the legion of the undead had made its way through the mist to help them. Wait, they’re definitely not helping things. They’re definitely making things difficult and death was imminent. This Khat had had her nose stuck in a book the past week since the meeting between the members of the guild, and it was a good thing too for she now summoned up an orb of pure shadow in her left hand, something she’d learned to finally fully conjure with much practice and studying. “Deal vith zhe lizards! I’ll vorry about zhe undead.” The ball was a sight to behold. No longer were they the acid globs of the recent past that Khitti had wielded in combat numerous times--they were now swirling orbs of shadow, their black, violet, and verdant hues shifting about like the glittery dust in a snowglobe. This was sent flying through the air towards the first of the gruesome spirits that were headed their way, more frozen arrows joining the cause to direct the undead towards here. Oh, they took notice of Khitti real quick-like. Death surrounded her like a beacon, and they flocked to her magic like a moth to a flame as she battled them with both magic and her bow.

Emrith is trying to keep a handle on the battle around him. When he sees a guild member threatened without being aware, he tries to be there to intercept. When he senses a flanking ploy, he attempts to divert at least part of it, or to raise some sort of alarm to alert its would-be target that they are being outmanoeuvred. Still, bedlam ensues, and the spell-blade simply cannot be everywhere at once. His blades, both enchanted, are stained with saurian blood, and Emrith is only glad that he had taken time to feed before the fight, else his relatively precise tactics would long since have devolved into the fury of bloodlust. His recent infusion of blood also ensures that he is in peak condition...yet every being, living or dead, will tire eventually. Emrith's strength is just beginning to flag when the leader arrives, then subsequently drops dead from the touch of something...unnatural. Emrith happens to be poised to see this, and the instant it happens, he shouts a warning, unfortunately in elvish. "Their touch is death!" It is instinctual, this knowledge, but his eyes do not lie. Soon enough he is embroiled in the melee. Flame stance to gorily sever an undead arm, water stance to eel fluidly past two converging horrors, wind stance with both blades, sweeping cuts toward the back of that particular duo with enough force to stagger or pitch them forward to the dirt. Then a headlong sprint to gain him some distance, followed by an all-out burst toward the cluster around Khitti. This must be done quickly, and although the shadowy woman appears to be dealing well, it is Emrith's opinion that no foe welcomes two swords from behind. Flame stance this time, and Emrith is mustering the last of his strength. Almost of his own accord, the elf's boots lift him a scant inch or two off the ground, and his assault is a terrific thing to behold. Blades everywhere, and the man himself skating to and fro as if on invisible ice. He strikes, thrusts, ducks, arches, dives, twists, and presents an extreme nuisance of himself in this last, desperate rush. If the undead do not feel pain, then he will chew them into a slurry thin enough to pass through a sieve.

Rorin focused more on the erupting raptors than the great beasts as he knew they would fall to Hellfire and he would keep his commanders back. Two more glaives and his other sword and Rorin is juggling weapons while felling beasts. With his strikes a flurry Rorin viciously and precisely countered here, slashed there, caught here, shielded there, and defended an exhausting amount of claws from his own behind. Ameno goes unnoticed but something does not feel right. Amidst the disaster and danger already present something is coming and it causes fear in Rorins heart. The squire backs towards his knight. Hildegarde calls and so Rorin signals Lionel to her position. "Something is coming," was all he could say as the feeling of danger mounted, escalated, his heart beating wildly, fear pushing on his mind. Rorin was as wild eyed and quick breathed as he had been just before the disaster in Larket. "There!" Rorin focused on crowd where he felt the omen mounting. Hands clutched swords tighter than he believed they were as glaives ringed his wrists. The squire X-ed his blades in front of him ready for the defensive. "Hildegarde!" Rorin called to the queen before arresting something from his small packs and throwing it towards her. "Let me lead," he said more calmly while the parcel tossed revealed itself as a proper spear-flag of Frostmaw. As if she enough was not a symbol on the wind to represent them Rorins mind had conjured certain romantic of how he wished this battle could be portrayed. And so he planted his swords in the ground and flicked the glaives into his hands where upon they were bestowed with holy light. He threw them both in a wide arc that would circle the undead behind them and ensure a corral for the warriors guild. The pilgrim picked up his swords and dashed ahead, a panting prayer slowly alighting their edges whereupon it could be found in sight of the undead Rorin unleashed an incredible amount of speed and strength he seemed to reserve for these situations. Not only did he keep up with Khitti, he met the forces head on, blade to blade, and where the glaives went six orbs of light would trail behind each appearing midair from the weapons trails. Where undead or saurians met these powers the lights would explode with great force, needles like hundreds of tiny lances shooting from them, destroying nearby sources of darkness. "Be aware, your magic will not take well to mine," he alerted Khitti as loudly as he could while being certain she was fast enough to stay ahead of him. Before the holy pilgrim dances light itself and holy force, pillars, waves, all slashing forth.

Eirik s heartbeat races, thumping as the creatures reveal themselves from the murky mists. Deep ragged breaths fill his lungs with oxygen and in defiance of their numbers he acts. The Berserker howls as he preemptively strikes them instead of defending, swiping Brann Forbruker in all its hissing glory. The explosive weapon scythes through the head of one raptor like a hot knife through butter and bites deeply into another, from sheer brute force. Another raptor screams in his face, slamming into his shield and rocking the Berserker in a jarring display. Teeth clench and fight back, feet sliding in a show of monstrous strength. Eirik knew he couldn't beat the raptors raw power and tenacity. Instead, he gathers his mind and brings that flaming weapon into a thrust straight over the top of his shield and down into the beast. Its wails of agony only a backdrop to the scene; another calamity of noise which confounds the battle field. The ashen Berseker meets the sudden agony of a strike, as claw digs into his thigh; Eyes harden in reaction. This was truly a dangerous position. As the last raptors presence had finally been reported, he twists using that sheild like a pair of brass knuckles, smashing it into the beast. The attack obliterates his already weakened shield. The now free hand comes to grab at the blade, and deep within himself pulls free the valor to bring that fiery weapon down to sever its head. Another claimed by the Berseker, but his strength wearing thin.

Dyraxdiin can hear the Venturilite Draconian's words, albeit softly against the sounds of battle. Ameno would be safe. And then, his attention is riveted upon the apparent leader of the Sauian pack who had organized the assault, its words heard easily enough. Dyraxdiin makes to move in closer to the group, so as to help support Lionel -- and then it all changes. The Saurain leader is killed with a touch, and undead are swarming everywhere. Their moans of countless years of torture in half-life beckoning all to join them. The raptors are wildly panicking with this new front, the Warriors Guild clamoring together to gain an advantage. Hildegarde, the Silver dragon and Queen of Frostmaw has arrived as well, her strength a boon to the party. The world, it seems, has suddenly broken into all-out chaos. Now, he decides, it is time. Diin raises his staff above his head with one hand, the other to grasp at the arcane twine holding the web. The robed mage grits his teeth, holding-fast against the force of the web-trap right before it sparks to life. A concussive wave descends towards the ground, intelligently slipping past - and ignoring - those few the mage calls ally. The swampy earth is battered with a resounding 'thud' of bitter finality, to pull down both raptor and undead alike in its wake. The immobilization web is a tightly constricting construct, to pin and hold its prey like a fly in a spiders grasp. The mage falls to his knees, leaning heavily upon his staff. It is all he can do to remain concious, nearly burning himself out with the expensive toll of igniting the dormant spell. "Finish them, quick!" He shouts to the people who remain standing, figures of strength in a world of chaos. His voice is no longer sure and easy, but hoarse and breathy. It is only a matter of time before the web itself fizzles out into nothingness.

Hildegarde catches the parcel that revealed itself to be flag bearing spear, symbolic of Frostmaw! Halberd in one hand, spear in the other, Hildegarde is a polearm machine. She lets the halberd drop slightly so her hand is closer to the axehead and the butt of the weapon nearer to the ground. Two raptors squawk excitedly at the sight of the armoured woman, likely thinking she’s like chicken in a tin. Dropping down hard onto her knee, the Silver jerks the spear out clear through the chest of the beast while she swings her halberd out horizontally to sweep the legs off of the other raptor. While one slumps onto the spear in a deathly pose, the other squeals and snaps viciously as its life essence oozes onto the ground at rapid pace. It’d die soon, that much was a certainty. But it was a horrid thing. Hildegarde, however, does not have long to reflect upon it as a ghostly figure slams hard into her armoured chest and sends her skidding back. The supernatural force even drags her a short distance across the earth before releasing the Queen with an eerie cackle. Spirits were never her forte. She releases her hold on the halberd and spear alike, waiting for the unholy creature to come down once again for her. It is only when she feels it grip at her throat – its intentions wholly lethal – does she reach for a small Aramothian trinket and ram it hard against the spirit’s wrecked face. It burns, it hisses and steams with divine power and righteousness; sending the spirit fleeing in terror. Grasping her halberd and the spear, which she holds high, the Silver glances all around. The mage was unfamiliar to her and his magic sent a peculiar tingle about her flesh, the magic rolling beyond her and passing on to those who meant to do the group harm.

The undead do not feel pain, but they are decimated. Khitti’s magic is tearing them asunder, and her bow is a good complement. Emrith’s flurries are a worthy companion piece. Rorin’s aura, although it remains to be seen what effect it will have on Khitti, is sending shockwaves of ruin to the awakened apparitions. Hildegarde’s charm curbs the battle in her queenly favor. And Dyraxdiin’s web falls upon them all like a curtain, and like a curtain, it covers. Eirik and Lionel remain affixed on the raptors, which is a fine thing, too, because the raptors, although frightened, are craving blind wholesale vengeance for their fallen alpha. Lionel’s own part in this engagement involves keen senses and unreal speed -- he dodges claws, blocks talons, leaps over similarly leaping raptors. His sword’s flames trail behind him at every turn, and fire volleys like a crossbow, and that fire crisps and burns and adds a disturbingly sweet scent to the air. A diagonal slash takes a raptor in the chest, and when Eirik is wounded, Lionel is as well. The split second lost in recognizing his wounded brother-in-arms is a price Lionel must pay in blood. His shoulder is cut clear across with a nasty slicing motion from a nearby beast, and Lionel cries out and rams into the thing with something like a hug. Blown aback by such brazen action, the raptor is stunned, and Hellfire ignites inside its rib cage. This is it, then -- the chaos is ending. The undead, so many of their fingers mere inches from their targets, melt into the earth in one last terrifying scream, ravaged by the magical inclinations of a group far more formidable than they’d anticipated. And what of the saurians? Dead to the last drop. The swampy marshes are blood and gore and ashes and corpses, corpses, corpses everywhere, and the mist seethes in finality and dissipates. The undead, those ghosts of wars past, are no more. Lionel breathes, bites his lip, sheathes his sword, and takes stock.

Khitti growled softly at the other vampire as he joined her fight against the undead, but kept her thoughts to herself. She had the situation handled or so she thought. Rorin’s warning was barely heard as she continued to slay the undead that deemed all of them worthy of certain doom and gloom. “Vait...vhat?!” was shouted as things clicked in her mind. This...was not good. Her magic wasn’t the problem at this point. While it would wane quite a bit in power thanks to the influx of holy magic, the circumstances had become far more deadly thanks to her plight of also being one of the undead. As she felt that surge of light summoned up by the paladin, she let out a cat-like hiss and darted away. Not even her shadow-stepping could help her this time, the magic fizzling out into small puffs of smoke instead of teleporting her several feet away from the radiant display of the paladin’s abilities. The lack of disappearing catches her off guard, a shriek of terror let out as she stumbles and falls to the ground instead. The holy magic surges past her, and thankfully, she was wearing that dragonscale duster and bodice for it protected most of the upper portion of her lithe body. The rest of her, however, was not so lucky. Not only did the magic drain her form of energy, but it burned something fierce--after all she’d been through in her thirty years had she ever felt such pain. The experimentations by the hands of necromancers, the turning into a vampire, and even the mental strain of taking on all one hundred and forty years of Ayras’ memories in Raiez’s cave paled in comparison to this torture, this agony. The smell of burning flesh was in the air, coming from the vampiress’ form, her newly acquired bow forsaken and left on the ground beside her as she howled in pain, worsening as Rorin’s magic lingered in the area. This...this was not good. Not good at all.

It is several moments before Emrith realizes that he is slashing at thin air, leaping and dodging foes that are no longer there. In the space of a heartbeat, all the strength seems to go out of him. Whether from the influx of holy energy, the undead themselves, the web of entrapment from Dyraxdiin, sheer exhaustion or some combination of all of those things, Emrith is utterly and completely spent. Blades fall from nerveless fingers, and the vampiric elf pitches onto his back, sending up a puff of bloody dust when he hits the ground. He is alive, but senseless. From far away, he hears the distant raucous caw of a vulture. His cloak is still clasped at his throat, so he lies there, invisible to all save his allies, unable even to gather up his weapons or regain his feet. This might just be tiredness of an extreme nature, but it might also be more; the elf has never pressed himself this hard before. Far back in what is left of his conscious mind, a faint spark rises. It is a spark of hunger, of need, of anger. For now, there is nothing to be done about it.

Rorin assessed the situation. The undead were now redead. The saurians lay broken and bleeding. A few of them were rather injured, Rorin himself sustained a few slashes around his armor and felt thoroughly exhausted. But... "Khitti!" He cursed and tried to disperse or absorb what he could of the leftover holy force in the area as he ran over to her. "I'm so sorry- Emrtih!" Rorin cried, having no idea how to heal a vampire. Rorin crouched near her, trying not to touch her, and an audible tremor was in his voice as he was close to crying. He had not meant to injure her! This was a disaster what else could he, "I'm so sorry-" he tried to tell Lionel and Hildegarde aa he looked around. "Where's Ameno?" He asked while he tried to keep a level voice. "Lionel I'm so sorry about Khitti I, I didn't know," he should have thought about where his attacks would end up before he issued them. Damn why couldn't he just stay back and blend with the crowd? Rorin cursed and cursed himself as he looked at the others injured. "I can heal you," he stammered though he'd probably caused enough damage. "We need to find Ameno," Rorin probably felled him for a mistaken saurian at this point. Why hadn't he been thinking about these things more?

Eirik s disheveled form can be seen heaving exaggerated gasps of air; chest rising and falling drastically as the wave of magic descends over him. This was a shock, he had been far too caught up in the momrnt to realize what was going on elsewhere. Brann Forbruker, is finally sheathed, it magics dying out as it slides home. His mind a wreck, awash with the scene of battle. Was it truly over? Silver eyes examine his surroundings, finally noticing the newcomers Dyraxdiin and Hildegarde. He had no idea what would have happened if they did not show. His leg hurt something fierce, throbbing with every heartbeat. The ashen warriors gaze moves down to inspect the wound. Another soon to be scar to add to the many. A hard gulp is taken as he tries to swallow back that dry lump in his throat. How he wished that gourd was full of alcohol right now. "Everyone alright?" Eirik still did not know a companion had been taken. At least not until he heard Rorins voice announce it. A hand reaches up to wipe sweat from his brow; it had been a hard fought battle and it would seem the warriors guild did indeed have opportunities for glory. He smiled, though exhausted, glad to have ran into Lionel in Frostmaw. Now where would Ameno have been dragged off too?

Dyraxdiin remains where he is. His blue eyed gaze, twinged with fatigue, to scan the swampy domain in the aftermath of it all. The ground here is mildly damp against his legs, soothing his muscles from the strain of battlemagic. Each person, the members of the Warriors Guild, are regarded in kind, a newfound respect blossoming for them all. But soon enough, his eyes affix upon Khitti. She is in pain... and her scent... She's a vampire. There is very little he can do for her in the way of healing, and he is unsure whether he is bleeding or not - his body too sore to notice. He could possibly cause further harm to her, were any of his blood to get on her burns. "Ameno has been taken by a duo of raptors." Comes Dyraxdiin's words in answer to Rorin, regaining some of that former quality of surety as he rises back to his feet; as a liason of the Mages Guild, Dyraxdiin cannot allow himself to remain in such a vulnerable state for too long.

Lionel is quick to twirl, chasing after Khitti as she collapses. His face is blank fear. He rushes straight past Emrith, before Emrith falls, blind to the fact that both vampires are in need of medical attention. It is Khitti who’d been caught in the corner of his eye, and it’s Khitti who Lionel has had the most interactions with, and so it is Khitti who he worries over most. “Damn it,” he says, balling his left hand into a fist. But it isn’t anger that marks the Catalian when he sees Rorin panicking over the damage he has wrought. It’s grief. “We need to get her some help, fast!” His voice, typically lilting, is cracking now and it’s raw and remorseful. “Someone help me with…” He’s cut off abruptly when Hildegarde approaches. The queen raises a hand, sympathy in her eyes, and kneels beside Khitti, scooping her up. “She will have help, Lionel, and fast.” Hildegarde smiles. Almost imperceptibly, she gestures for Lionel to come closer, and he does, and she’ll whisper: “Find Ameno if possible, of course, but… Lionel.” She grimaces thoughtfully. “We need words with that mage.” It is Dyraxdiin, of course, and Lionel nods slowly. “That kind of power… Frostmaw may need it in the wars to come. See if he’ll listen. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Those last words bring Lionel into an awkward smirk, and Hildegarde -- Khat in the cradle -- ascends with great haste. Emrith is tended-to, and if he cannot consciously object, he’ll be strapped to the saddle of a wyvern and sent to Frostmaw as well. If he -does- object, well, Lionel will heed him and leave him for the time being. In any case, the Knight-Commander leads the charge, deeper into the ravine and through the marshes in search of Ameno. For over an hour, they’ll scour, and then another hour after that, but there is simply too much injury to those that follow. Eirik is in pain. Rorin is emotionally compromised. The search comes up empty. “We’ll launch a mission on the morrow,” Lionel announces with a sense of saddened finality. “If he’s alive, we’ll find him. You did well. Damned well.” He pauses, navigating one last pass. “Let’s go home. All of us look like hell. Amazing work, people. Amazing work."