RP:Something Stirs

From HollowWiki

Eastern Frostmaw Gates

Lionel has assembled quite the demonstration. It's taken the better part of the day, but his greenhorn battalion of Frostmawian soldiers-to-be is prepped and ready at last for tomorrow morning's big event. Training this class has been one of the hardest things he's ever done. For some, it might have been easier. Lionel has lived a life of impulsive heroics, a series of solo or small-forces world-saving and world-preserving antics in which he's survived by the proverbial edge of his harness. Infamously he has often followed his own rules in the pursuit of countless criminals, answering to no authority but his own conflicted heart. If there were any rhyme or reason, it would have been Donovan Keane standing here proud of his students, or Kalidruil Dryearudrenn, or some other name of some other champion long gone from this realm, by death or by chance or by choice. Lionel always thought himself too chaotic for all this. And yet here he stands, just the same. He looks at them as they settle into their tents, all of them tired from the long trek back to the city and yet many of them putting on the steely faces of warriors. Lionel| They've come a long way, and somehow, Lionel has played a part in seeing to that. Tomorrow morning, the battalion will split into two separate factions, and those factions will participate in a grueling mock battle, with the wooden training weapons Lionel's company blacksmith, an elf of Catalian origin called Veili, has on stock in a nearby watchtower. Regardless of victor, each and every trainee will be judged on individual merits. Many will pass, Lionel believes, but some are likelier to falter than others. Lionel observes the siblings Helena and Michael as they step inside their tents for the eve; he wonders whether the highly capable Helena will let her brashness and troublemaking get in the way of her graduation. He hopes not. They, like Veili and a few of the dwarves and a couple more humans, are Catalian. Some of the last people of the dead realm Catal the world will ever see. Integrating them into Frostmaw is the least the fallen prince can do after Elazul's followers scorched their emerald land. Lionel looks to Aurig, a blunt, by-the-letter giant of a man. "He'll make the cut," he mutters to himself, as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a simple metal ring. Engraved on its surface is an image of the ice queen, Hildegarde. All those who pass tomorrow's exam will be gifted these rings, and sworn into the queen's service. He twirls it around on his index finger, and questions in silence how it ever came to be that a man like himself began to live this teacher's life. But it's a good life. A worthy life. Service to Hilde will help to ensure the continuation of the fragile peace of this realm. For once, Lithrydel is looking up. For once, Lionel can rest, even if only a bit. He shivers softly in his black button-up silk shirt; the cold winds are rising. Beyond the great eastern gates, the halfway-rebuilt city at the contemporary political center of the continent sleeps in peace. Yet higher up in the mountains, obscured just now by cover of thick foliage, a malevolence spies in secret. Although no one may know it even by night's end, a darkness is about to take its first steps to sweeping over the world. Tonight, something stirs.


A surprising pawn in this band of students was a small little witch, weaving her way in and out of the tents. She waves her hand and calls out greetings to some of those heading in for the night, nodding her head to others who are too far away to catch her words. Talyara wasn’t part of the class, she wasn’t a part of the brotherhood; however, she had been a participant of the group through the long journey up to Frostmaw after asking Lionel to allow her to join them. His job was done, she was free to roam and actually do what she came here to do which was to assess the damage of her home. Alas, it was a task she wasn’t ready to complete, least of all alone, and the excitement in the air was enough to keep her tethered to the students hoping to graduate. “At least until after tomorrow,” she promise herself half-heartedly. The witch had forgotten how cold it was up here and truth be told she wasn’t dressed accordingly. However. the familiar blue flames were ever present in her hands, the cobalt glow alighting her face eerily as she walked. Spying the Catalian she rolls her eyes noting his typical black silk shirt. “This is Frostmaw, you know,” she informs him. “You really ought to get some warmer attire,” she chides with a click on her tongue.


Diryon rarely finds himself in Frostmaw, but tonight is apparently some sort of special occasion; not only is he within the city, but he’s straying from the tavern that he usually sticks quite close to. The mage can plainly be seen traveling through the snow and frost with an azure-topped staff in hand, a wreath of flame weaving around the crown in an almost languid manner. Noting the presence of so many tents near the gate, Diryon quirks a curious brow and averts his course to investigate; the warriors of the company are all foreign to him, but Talyara and Lionel are two familiar faces in a crowd full of strangers. Though the young mage has only met the two once before, he strides out to greet them nonetheless. “Hey!” He begins, “So, ah, I’d hate to interrupt you two again, but what’s the occasion?” A particularly frigid gust knives through the area just as Diryon falls silent, coaxing a shudder from the normally composed mage. “How does anyone live here? This cold is the pits, don’t you think?” Though Diryon chalks it up to everyday weather of Frostmaw, it may well be some sort of chilling portend.


Elias didn't have climbing and bouldering on the list of things he was planning to do on this chilly evening, but a last-minute journey to Frostmaw required just such an ordeal. The troubadour's life called for random wanderings, however, and he has long become used to this nomadic life -- not since leaving the concert hall of Larket nigh on a decade ago has he known anything resembling stability. He shudders as he approaches the giant gates of this strange (to him, at least) domain of Lithrydel. Something feels different, and it's not just down to being a little colder than usual from having his new cloak politely removed by a crashing-by boulder on the ascent -- a small price to pay for surviving a narrow miss, though now he's making Lionel look well dressed for the conditions. Nevertheless, he convinces himself that close call and acclimating to the cold are the root of his sudden pang of anxiety. Indeed, his spirits lift slightly when he spots an encampment near the gate, and Elias cocks his head to one side while appraising the scope of this camp. "Huh. Something must be up," he murmurs, at once rerouting himself toward the din. As Elias gets closer he notices the familiar figure -- well, one he'd heard about through the grapevine and only witnessed from afar. "-The- Lionel?" he thinks. "Yeah, something's definitely up." Maybe they need some distracting, but in truth it's the bard himself who could use a distraction.


Leoxander was typically not a man for service. But desperation and hard times called for the unexpected. Here he was, marching through the familiar and despised snow of Frostmaw in boots that still managed to gather snow into the cuffs. Trudging on, determined, with a sour expression on his features and ice on the black face cover he wore. Perhaps it was foolish to deny Lanara's offer of a warming spell, but he didn't stop walking, even if steam followed his wake for every step. He approaches the gates, cautiously. He hears voices in the distance, interacting. But for now, he lingers at a distance, using wolf sharp ears to eavesdrop on the conversation. A few steps to the side would bring him out of range of sight, for the time being.


Lanara manages to keep her pace beside Leoxander, and has made small talk along the journey from Xalious. However, as they make their way up the steep snowy mountain, she seems to lose her luster for chitchat and merely maintains her footing and stays mostly silent. It wasn’t the farthest of treks, and she could have just used her broom and flown here on her own, but if she was being truthful, she enjoyed having the companionship of Leo at her side. Also, she knew the male was still trying to regain his strength, and the healer in her just couldn’t allow him to make the trip alone. As they near the gates, voices are heard, a gathering of people can be seen, and the witch finds herself slowing down to survey the scene. Leo had mentioned his reasoning for coming to Frostmaw, partially that it had to do with Hildegarde, and that it involved earning some coin. The witch wasn’t entirely dressed to sustain such elements, though the cold didn’t seem to bother her, well at least not as much as the tingling on her left wrist. Curious, she scratches at her wrist and peers around the camp, her chocolate hues settling on Talyara. What was her sister doing in Frostmaw?! Last she heard, the cottage was destroyed, Linn was missing, and Taly was staying in Xalious. And at her side was Lionel, and that mage fellow she met briefly at the library, his name all but forgotten. Inching closer to Leo she peers up at the male, to see what he made of the situation, and gently pokes his arm, to remind him that she was still present.


Kaval knew the city had been bustling with military activity more than usual, and yet despite her distaste for the crowds and the overly pompous guards she found herself lead into a battalion of soldiers. The last months before winter struck the lands had brought up the opportunity to descent to the low-lands and snare plump game in preparation for the barren days ahead. However descending into the Xalious ranges meant passing on through the collective group gathered here, which seemed easier said than done as a large fellow clasped her shoulder-babbling on about his readiness to finally prove himself, “-en that bow, aye-ya nah you eint needing it. We'll get ya some real steel-cool en sharp!” Her brow furrowed as she rolled her shoulder back in a sharp jerk while the man bellowed a laugh, causing her to tighten her grip around the lower limb of her bow. How the man even assumed her to be apart of this lot was beyond her-nothing of her attire could honestly be comparable to what the solders donned. Yet, rather than trying to make her way through the camp and most certainly getting more unwelcome encounters she decided to stay and simply wait it out, and possibly even learn what reason this gathering took place.


Rorin wandered frostmaw once more, visiting his ward, oddly bestowed on him by a ghoulish death-knight. The young squire was dressed head to toe in thick hardened steel studded leather armors, a fur cloak set about him under a large and filled pack made for long treks. His crystalline grey eyes tinted with blue scanned the cavalcade before him, recognizing a few faces in the distant crowd. Most of his face was covered by a large scarf made of green fabric that seemed to be always moving and a pattern of blue trylobites that seemed to come right off of it. He was quite warm for once, his magical gauntleted hands resting on his weapons under the cloak, as he would walk a bit through the processions. Draben | Elves weren’t known to be fond of the cold, and this elf didn’t stray far from that opinion. Dressed in leather, and carrying the customary pack and bow, the only addition to the wardrobe to alleviate the bitter winds that clawed at his flesh was a simple heavy cloak. This was probably a mistake. Yanking the cloak tightly closed with a single gloved fist, Draben took long purposeful strides through the snow. In the distance, the gates of Frostmaw loomed. “At last,”, the elf thought to himself, “There’s a bloody fire somewhere…”, he mumbled to himself, keeping his brown eyes low and squinted as a feeble gesture to shield them from the stinging cold. Trudging further, the elf found himself – probably far too late – entirely too close to the army that he had tracked the days before. “The price to learn an optimal route to Frostmaw…”, he spat bitterly as he glanced around for some cover.


Loire crests the last ridge of the Xalious mountains and finds himself face to face with a tremendously large wrought metal gate. Hmm, he must have made a wrong turn while heading to Kelay again... This place looked like Frostmaw. Looks like it was a good call to climb the mountain like a landwalker instead of winging it. He had heard horror stories of fliers mercilessly shot down for passing through Frostmaw airspace. His birdlike eyes, false-green melded from blue corneas over gold iris and sclera, survey the scene before him. Snow, Giant door, giant battallion, evil knight... "Evil knight!" the slender bard exclaims despite himself. A platoon of hardened warrior eyes turns toward the Avian with an unkind expression. The bard quickly forces his expression into a jovial smirk and brings his palms together for rapid applause. "Ohohohoho! Marvelous! Everyone is in top form today. Certainly, no evildoers entering Frostmaw today!" his melodious tenor gushes out extravagant praise until the soldiers roll their eyes and turn back to... whatever it was they were doing. "Well carry on, toodles!" he says once he finally notices absolutely nobody can stand to look at his antics anymore, and finishes with a grandiose bow to nobody in particular. Without looking away, he saunters into the city with a light-toed glide that leaves nary a mark on the snow. Or that's the plan, except he promptly runs into the gate, knocking himself down from the impact. Fragrant golden feathers scatter in the air and drift down around the spread-eagled birdman. "Oh, it's snowing yellow snow..." he mumbles, half-unconscious.


They're cloaked in black. Some black is steel, worn in the traditional style of the death knight. Those who don this obsidian armor place customary red sashes at their shoulder plates, and they wield ugly blood-stained axes and hammers. Some black is all hood and robe, and them that wear it loose-fittingly grab their oaken and birch staves or red metal rods and steady their heads for spellcasting. The tighter-fitting attire is reserved for the rogues, assassins of stealth and shadow who may prove particularly venomous under cover of nightfall as they coat their dirks in purple poisons. Standing behind them all, a gloriously white-bearded man, his features weathered by age but nevertheless angular and striking, oversees preparation's end. He appears human, save for one defining characteristic: he has no eyes. It would seem he does need them. His posture, his shifting stance, the way he tilts his neck -- it's obvious to all that this man is hardly blind. Just then, the man tenses, unfolding his arms and pointing one forward through the treeline. "It begins." It's all he says. It's all he has to say. Like clockwork, all forty-seven of the troops under his command forward-face and stalk ahead, so quiet in their march. A fuchsia glow appears at the edges of the sorcerers' rods, and napalm soon coats that glow. This army of darkness descends mountain's edge, still silent, still sly, still unseen. Abruptly, napalm rods are flung forward, their range and arc so flawless as to be doubtlessly assisted by some unseen magic, and that napalm bursts into flame as it strikes each and every tent. The army now breaks into a tremendous rush, sprinting with all its vigor clear into the military encampment, weapons out and making to hack to pieces any and all who breathe before them. The Blindseer remains behind, his thoughts linked to their thoughts, his will made manifest autonomically. A death knight of extraordinary size swings forth his hammer upon the young Rorin, even as a second death knight notices the unfortunate Draben, and brings his axe to bear. What of Loire, stymied in his travels by the very-obvious gate? Poor Loire might turn left or right to find two assassins, one on each side, daggers at the ready, aiming for his throat. Kaval will find herself near to a trio of enemy mages, each of them readying a separate elemental spell as the recruits in their burning tents scramble to escape. Elias goes unnoticed for a time, but Lionel and Talyara and Diryon are quickly surrounded by two knights with axes arced for Lionel's skull, two mages just behind them. Lionel has time only to smirk at Talyara before mayhem overwhelms the environment. He would have said something witty, perhaps, and he might have done just so with Diryon, too, but his whole world has ignited in a blaze of ignominy. Hellfire is drawn from its case upon his back before he has time to think; roaring flames erupt upon its cold steel, and he blocks an initial blow from a death knight's axe, then dares to reach for a knife with one hand, holding that block firmly in place with the other arm, and he tosses it for the knight's unprotected head, taking it in one blow. Still, the horror continues. "Get her to safety," he demands of DIryon as he shifts his pose to chase the mages.


Talyara takes a step closer to Lionel, intent on sharing her warming flames with him as she had all throughout the trek up to Frostmaw. The arrival of Diryon surprises the witch; she’s not entirely sure why it does, it just seems odd to meet him up here in the snow of Frostmaw after just seeing the mage in Xalious. The empath dips her head in greeting to him before wrinkling up her nose at the tingling in her wrist. Taly immediately becomes distracted, craning her neck over her shoulder and peering around the camp in search of her sister for she had to be close. “Where is she?” she whispers quietly to herself. “And what the hell is she doing up here?” Her search is suddenly cut short, as her mind feels like it’s about to explode, the pressure building and building. Just as the army makes its strike, Talyara yells in pain, hands which have extinguished her blue flames coming up to clutch the sides of her head in an explosion of not only tents, but emotions as well. Hunched over slightly and eyes squeezes shut, the witch doesn’t notice that the trio are suddenly surrounded or that Lionel has withdrawn Hellfire poised to fight. She hears his voice though, calling out for her safety and she does her best to right herself, and squint through watery eyes. “What’s happening?” is also she manages to say in her attempt to focus through the pain.


Diryon likely would’ve rather enjoyed some witty banter with Lionel, but before they can properly begin all hell breaks loose…to say the least. “Really?” The mage scoffs incredulously, nodding at Lionel’s command as those knights encroach. Turning to Talyara, Diryon reaches out and grasps the woman by the arm to lead her along, not trusting to simply have her follow behind. “Sorry, but we’ll lose one another otherwise!” Sensing the preparation of spells by other mages in the area, Diryon narrows his eyes and turns just in time to see a single spellcaster flinging a fiery ball of death in their direction. Raising his staff, the mage channels a defensive spell into it with little more than a simple thought; the flames that writher around the azure crown turn a much lighter hue and coalesce into a translucent screen that surrounds Talyara and Diryon. The fireball crashes into the magical barrier with a harrowing clatter that sends flames scattering across its surface, causing the arcane shield to flicker and weaken; the integrity of the barrier remains intact even after absorbing the sheer pressure of the explosion, however, and Diryon’s riposte to the opposing mage is swift. Pointing his staff at the aggressor, Diryon summons forth a series of cerulean globes that seem oddly liquid in nature; these tiny spheres streak forth for the other mage and gather closer together as they encroach, taking the form of a triple pronged spear that lances through the man’s head; the other mage falls under a shroud of death and Diryon nods to Talyara, tugging her along once more. “Right, let’s get going!”


Elias surely didn't have this in mind! He's not much of a battler -- he's a crooner, not a fighter. For that very reason the briefest of all momentary reliefs sweeps over him as he surmises he's gone unseen, but it's replaced by unbridled horror as the bloodbath begins to unfold before him. He knew, just -knew- that something wicked was in his path, but an expression of terror on a face drained of color shows this is far, far more than his anxiety had suggested. The only other time he had witnessed this level of mayhem was when Khasad took the battle in earnest to the resistance's base in Larket. Then, the musicians were drafted into the cause, lending their talents to calm, in some cases even heal, the spirits of those battling for Lithrydel's very life. Now, though, he clams up. It's already cold to the point where he's loathe to exert any kind of energy, and truthfully he would gladly use what little energy he harbors in order to flee with his life -- but the ambush forces his hand. Elias swears to himself under his breath and, choosing honor over convenience, begins to hum a gentle song. It's a song low enough that it's practically inaudible to anyone other than himself, and one that begins to warm his chilled core. The color returns to his face, and at the same time his boldness stirs within his spirit. Elias isn't a fighter, but he's no stranger to chaos. Warmed to action, his tune changes, grows louder and shifts direction from the bard himself. Its aim is to protect those under assault, though it's a little out of practice and he can't be confident of its efficiency. Nonetheless he sings, his voice growing in a crescendo until he's giving every last bit of energy toward safeguarding whatever life he can. All but certain he'll be found out soon and under attack himself, Elias begins to scour the area around him for some form of projectile -- anything he can launch with his modified mandolin. Continuing his song all the while, his hand settles upon the bullwhip attached to his belt and sitting at the ready if need be. Regardless, Elias takes a battle posture. This may not go well for him, but he can't stand by and watch it happen without trying to help. On he sings, each note purposeful and pitch-perfect in its design to aid.


Leoxander took a glance at Lanara, and even moved an arm as though to shield her, or draw her behind him. He then followed her gaze toward her sister, and because of the incident in the library, her face was recognizable. Focused back in the group, he narrowed his eyes. He hadn't expected this. Leo was here on a work order for the Queen, who was no where in sight, but in his vision soon shifted to Lionel. Honestly, he didn't know whether to think good or bad of the situation. A shiver passed through him, whether for the temperature or the scene he faced. He gave the most quiet murmur he could manage to the woman beside him. "Did you know they would be here?" For their brief time together, he expected Lanara to answer honestly. For now he attempted to keep them out of sight, to observe what was going on; it was instinct, for him. Loire's bump into the gate causes him to pause, to stare, as feathers showered the spot where he fell. He remembered the Avian, and whether it was a trap or not, he stepped forward to grab his arm and try to help him up. "For a bloke with wings, you don't walk too well. I'd stick to the feathers." He heard the heavy march, then. Still on the sidelines, he could see ahead into the distance for his nocturnal eyesight, and the army coming forth. The death knight attacking, the shadows upon Loire. Spell casters upon a person he does no know. Immediately, he attempts to grab Larana and Loire back behind the cover of the gate and shields them with his arm, cursing under his breath, even as he hears Elias' song rise up. He is fairly unaware that Talyara already knows of her presence due to her empath skill, and might have missed the yell. But he would have no choice but to draw twin blades at that point and try to counter the assassins after the bard. So there might be a clang of blades as he steps out with weapons drawn in defense, relying on old habits and training to battle two on one.


Lanara lets out a soft ‘no’ as the night takes a turn for the worst, and watches the mechanical motions of the soldiers, and feels a shiver run down her back. Her sibling was in there and she would be damned if she’d nearly lose her sister again. The carnage is momentarily ignored as she extracts a throwing knife from her boot and tries not to panic. The witch didn’t have time to prepare as the journey was decided upon last minute, and she didn’t know that they would need much in the ways of defense. Still, her magic was her go to of choice in situations like this, and she refused to play the damsel in distress. “My sister…” The woman clearly had no idea that her sister would be here, and she was furious at Lionel, for not taking better care of her younger sibling. “I… I can fight.” Lana would be reckless if she were to attempt to battle with so many gathered, and with a mere dagger as a weapon. As Leo puts an arm around her to shield her, she doesn’t bother to push him off, she instead follows his lead, and locks eyes with Loire. What the hell was going on here tonight?!


Kaval ducked as suddenly an explosion of activity erupted fourth. Instinct caused her to fully draw and knot her bow, keeping low and sweeping her weapon around to scan about while nocking an arrow. The chaos around seemed instantly deafening, however the sharp gag of her momentary companion pulled her attention as the large fellow toppled over while a disturbing trio advanced towards her. Her arm itched to reach out and attempt to revive the man, however she knew fine well her limitations and anything more than superficial injuries were beyond her. Despite shot nerves she somehow managed to inhale and draw back, flicking her fingers back as she released her arrow towards one of the creature's neck. Fluidly she had another notched and shot, two repetitive arrows aimed slightly to the flank of her first target in hopes it would sway to avoid her first. Enough time wasted focusing on one of the creatures as she tried to slip back towards cover as the camp grounds seemed to be opening up in pockets while blazing tents began collapsing. The last thing she needed was to be out in the open during an attack. Twisting around for a quick glace she spied Diryon not too far from her, and not a moment later as the hair raised on the back of her neck did she dive into the muddled snow while a roar of flames burst above. So that explains why things where ablaze. Ears rigging painfully as she kicked herself up and forward she darted towards Diryon and his companions. It had to be magic, of course, but if she was near others who could use ranged attacks then she might possibly have a chance to survive this ordeal.


Rorin felt something. Unease. The kind of unease he knew came from eyes watching you or daggers about to hit you right where they needed to. He took a deep breath and began to skit his eyes about with an intensely studious glare. Rorins hands fingered his weapons, pointed half elf ears accutely focused. Something stirred. Rorin stood stock still in the snow, part of him wanting to run- but his training forced him to ask why. There- a movement in the skys. Not frostmaws dragons- too small and arced. The squire began to tense and screamed "ambush!" At the top of his lungs. He would look for a leader or a leaders tent or even an armorer- knowing these would become choke points or strong holds. He would sprint for the first one he saw, ditching his cloak and pack and picking up a surpising amount of speed for the teen half elf. From a corner between tents Rorin would slide to a stop as he raised his shield and pulled his sword, a huge ethereal blue shield like barrier appearing over his right arm and doing exactly what it was made for. As the death knights hammer hit a shockwave would emanate outward, carrying a sizzling wave of energy that disrupted magic within its field as well, spreading a good forty or fifty feet as the death knights hammer strike would rebound with equal speed and force it was dealt, hopefully dazing the Knight and leaving him open as Rorin would swing and flick the shield upright at the knights chest, the magically sharpened edge sideways in an attempt to either keep him open or deal a bit of damage as Rorin would make a guarded short thrust at his abdomen, bastard sword and his practical shield in his hands.


Loire feels a tug on his arm as he's pulled up. What, he was rescued? By Sir Leo, no less? But that would have to wait for later. He rolls out of the lycan's grasp and is on his feet in one smooth, practiced movement. Avian eyes dart over the battlefield. Death knights. Spellcasters. Assassins. All in black. Obviously hostile. And an eyeless mage in command? He takes out his lute and is just about to play support when an assassin tries to jump him and he swings the instrument around with a tiny "Eek!" in surprise. Okay, maybe not so tiny. The shriek resonates through the pass and combat pauses for a short "What the heck?" moment. Then everyone gets back down to business. The instrument's body connnects solidly with the attacker's, but its neck snaps clean in two. The assassin collapses in a heap on the snow, evidently hit in some private vital spot. "Tsk." Not another one, Loire chides himself, drawing a proper weapon from under his wing. As they say, no matter what, the show must go on. "Thank you very much!" He says briefly to the two as he steps aside while Sir Leo engages the enemy, delicate fingers playing an improbable tune from his trusty fishing rod.


A torrent of sound and color swept the landscape, threatening to sweep the elf up in its merciless grasp. Cruel and quiet words, tents now blazing, and the rush of footsteps crunching menacingly across the snow, it was nothing short of a miracle that the frozen Draben reacted at all. A soldier – certainly not one of the army he had trailed – stormed the elf’s position, axe raised and gleaming ominously as the reflections of flames danced across its surface. The elf dove backwards, the execution of the evasion quite poor due to the weak purchase of the snow and the surprise of the circumstances. However, the same material that had weakened his dive also made for a cushioned landing as the elf impacted the snow, tucked, and rolled upright once more. With a dull thud, the axe blade crashed into the ground just inches from the elf’s half-crouched position. Without time or distance to properly draw a bow, the elf resorted to the lethal daggers hanging from each hip, drawing them in a swift motion, gritting his teeth as he inhaled sharply and invited the unflinching cold into his body. Gracefully, or rather as gracefully as the terrain would allow, the elf delivered a vicious counter-attack, propelling his foot into the air to strike the hand bearing the axe before using the kick’s momentum to lunge forward, swinging both daggers in a scissor motion in hopes to slicing through the attacker’s flesh.


Leoxander might just be countering one assassin then. No complaints from the pirate. All the more manageable, and he even responds to the Avian as he is given that thanks. "Let's not make this a habit. And what the-" Another clang, a twist of his arm in attempt to disarm the opponent, old technique coming back to him much clearer than any of his memories were. Whether or not he succeeded in relinquishing the weapon from the other assassin, he did attempt to knock the hilt of his dagger gripping fist into chin, followed by a fur lined boot into stomach to knock him out. It didn't seem proper to kill someone who might have information about why this had all happened. "The hell are you doin' with a bloody fishing pole?"


Lionel spits at the second death knight even as a sickly axe descends upon him. He swings Hellfire through the air horizontally to clang from the fallen foe's falling axe to this next immediate threat, and a growing flame swooshes along with the swung sword, then wraps itself around the enemy, cooking him in his armor. Yet still the death knight charges, meeting his blade, and their weapons slam into one-another again, and again, then again a fourth time, but on the fifth assault Hellfire's edge cuts the foe's head clear off, blood spraying every which way as the headless corpse drops to the red-stained snow. Lionel shifts his azure gaze to note Diryon's assigned duty fulfilled, and he breathes in relief, the ground around him charging into a tempest of fire which soon surrounds his legs. In a mad streak, fire left in his wake, the hero sprints at supernatural pace straight beside the man Elias in his song, cleaving through an assassin from behind who had seemed to fancy the notion of killing the bard just then. "Lionel," he says, unnecessarily, to the singing man with his bullwhip, taking up a protective stance ahead of him and pivoting his stature to evade a tossed poisoned dagger. "All on me," he then screams a command, as survivors of the initial onslaught escape their tents, feeling refreshed by the bardic arts filling the environment. He spots Helena, and MIchael, and they fight as they can, and two dozen more recruits scramble to reach him, and Veili, the elf, is rushing from his hut with naught but training swords. This was the perfect attack. A truly unprepared army. Someone knew. Elsewhere, Leoxander parries well. A lone assassin, survivor after Loire's fantastic display of finesse, is soon joined by two more. Each draws their knives, each lunges for the beastly man who dares to defend Lanara and Loire. The rogue will now contend with all three, it seems, except that Lionel and all those he commanded to fall back on his mark, and perhaps Elias too if he heeds the order, all of them, every last survivor, is bolting straight for the gate. One recruit reaches for a great bell, swinging it with all his vigor, and a warning klaxon thus erupts all throughout Frostmaw, the main guard alerted and the citizenry awoken to the danger. Lionel's students descend on the assassins like wolves, tearing them to shreds through panicked physical assault. Now the tide may turn; Lionel, Leoxander, Lanara, Loire, basically half the country's "L" names, plus the surviving raw recruits beside them, all of them are bracing and all of them can retaliate. Some distance wayward, Draben's scissor-attack strikes true, taking his enemy clean on both marks, the creature wholly unprepared for such a switch in battle procedure in the heat of the moment. Draben now has the choice to flee or to align with Lionel, it would seem, a lull on his end granting him a moment's respite. All around Kaval, dark forces are falling in her wake. This draws attention from quite a number of them, pulling them wayward of the struggling recruits in her favor. Then she makes haste toward Diryon and Talyara, and a death knight, war hammer at the ready, rushes to end her before she can rack up her streak any further. Rorin's target is positively blindsided; the burly man is toppled, taken in the chest by that shield, and it's all the villain can do to barely block the encroaching bastard sword. Behind Rorin, a certain Frostmawian soldier -- another burly man, this one called Aurig -- grunts and stands back-to-back with the young paladin, his sword catching an assassin's dagger.


Talyara is, unfortunately for Diryon, not a willing participant in this “get Talyara to safety" business. Leaving Lionel, despite his impressive credentials and abilities, feels too much like abandoning him for the witch’s liking and even as the mage grabs her arm and drags her along, she’s putting up a struggle. “Wait…we can’t…just…leave him,” she protests through gritted teeth, yelping as Diryon absorbs an oncoming fireball and subsequently attacks a mage in their fleeing. It seems that -this- mage has won the round for he’s tugging at the witch again, prodding her to continue to in an effort to get out of harm’s way. Despite her lithe frame and her weakened state as of late, she yanks her arm out of Diryon’s hand with impressive strength, stumbling backwards with the momentum. Momentarily, those green eyes lock with his own and she flails her arms in an attempt to keep him at bay before the ailing empath pushes her booted foot against the ground and uses it for leverage to head back into the fray, vanishing before your eyes, perhaps never to be seen again.


Diryon finds a surprising amount of resistance as he tries to walk forward. Glancing back, his eyes narrow in another incredulous look as Talyara tries to separate and return to Lionel. “Are you kidding? He can handle himself, all you’re doing i-“ The mage grunts as the persistently stubborn woman yanks her arm loose and vanishes into the fray, lost in the chaos in one mere instant. “Damn it…” He breathes, his eyes still quite narrowed as he tries to keep sight of her in all the pandemonium; he’s unable to, however, and Kaval’s arrival beside him snares his attention. Though Diryon wasn’t exactly able to witness Kaval’s handiwork only moments ago for playing arm tug-o-war with Talyara, he reasons the woman isn’t a foe in this battle. Not that he has even a moment to utter a rushed greeting: a death knight with a monstrous war-hammer is making for the woman and he’s also drawing nearer to Diryon by extension. Before the wicked knight can take his swing, the mage lifts a hand utters a spell so simple that it takes only a matter of seconds to complete; a fiery glow envelopes the mage’s palm and gives way to a cone of flame that shoots forth for the death knight’s face. Even if the aggressor may avoid it, he may be blinded by the brilliance of the flames long enough for Kaval to deliver the coup de grace.


Elias isn't conscripted, volunteered, voluntold or any other form of enlisted in Lionel's army -- remember, -not- a fighter -- but all too eagerly he purposes to heed the command of the much more seasoned warrior to fall back into the city. Two near-death experiences are enough for one day for Elias -- he doesn't cower as much as feel his knees buckle until Lionel's call compels him to suck it up and move on to safety behind the gates. But will he get there without incident? The answer to that, as per usual, is no, as in addition to the would-be assassin felled by Lionel's blade, two more take aim at Elias for his role in generally (if only indirectly) aligning himself with their targets. He spots something on the ground within whip's reach and immediately pounces upon the opportunity, garnering himself a metallic looking ... thing that's nondescript but capable of being launched. And launched it is, headed for the torso of one would-be killer. The blow proves fatal to the assassin, but not before it reacts violently and involuntarily takes out its partner in crime on its to the afterlife. Elias blinks, seemingly caught offguard by the efficacy of his attack. But Diryon's lobbed spell of doom jars him back to the matter at hand, which is falling behind Lionel's orders and getting to safety. The bard is sure to watch his rescuer's back along the way, however -- he owes him that much.


Loire sits on his knees on the ground and lays his fishing rod across his lap like a shamisen, entrusting his safety to his companions. Precious little he could do with only one string, but a bard is nothing if he cannot improvise. Fortunately, he was not the only musician afield. He harmonizes with the other bard's song-- the Avian cannot see or hear him from this vantage, but he certainly can feel his magic. Loire adds a layer of healing over the defense magic his duet partner was playing. With his fingers doing all the work, his face is free to smile sweetly at the pirate and sing in reply, "Why, Sir Leo, your technique is magnificent! I am most impressed by your prowess!" The bard continues to prattle conversationally while his fingers furiously keep tune with the accompaniment. The enemy hesitates in confusion at the completely absurd scene, some of them shaking their heads in disgust and turning away to fight a more worthy battle. But this perhaps was part of the bard's magic. One assassin finally composes himself and raises his blade at the group-- of four, now-- holding the gate, and the bard showers him with praises of his manhood and promises of a night of music and art that he would never forget. The warrior drops his blade and runs full tilt from the storyteller, completely terrified.


Leoxander said the F-word. Blatantly. Whether or not that first opponent was on the ground or crawling back up to his feet, two more were joining the fray. And he wasn't ready for this. He had come here expecting to struggle through manual labor, not a full out battle. But wasn't that how it always went? A fight never came easily. And he didn't have the focus to notice either sister or the retreat they might be forced to make. "Give us a hand, Feathers!" He shouted at Loire demandingly, completely on the defense as he blocked strike after strike from the other two on their feet. But Leo was starting to stumble. Whereas in the past he might react and retaliate flawlessly, he might manage to react to one while the other landed a hit. Regardless, he would react by taking advantage of that, perhaps for a fatal strike of blade to skull. Most likely, he would be bleeding, but it would give time for Lanara to escape and perhaps for Loire to react.


Lanara looks at her wrist, feeling the pulse lessen as Taly is tugged from the unexpected battle area, by Diryon. She doesn’t see her sister being led to safety, as the area is filled with bodies, both dead and living, as swords clang, and fireballs are thrown every which way she looks. Where was Talyara? Please let her be alright, Lana pleads in her head, over and over. Then, as Leo takes down an assassin with his twin blades, she inches nearer to the gate and peers through. The mage had his hands upon her sister and was trying to pull her to safety, or was he part of this whole set up? Derek? Desmond? Dijon? Whatever his name was, she remembered him well from a few nights ago. Taly thought it would be funny to try her hand at matchmaking, and naturally, Lana wasn’t interested. Aside from that, she did recall Dijon mentioning a tower and that he was infatuated with Lionel’s big sword. But then, the events shift and Taly is running back towards the attackers?! As the bell rings, and more backup arrives, Lana rises to her boots, dusts off her knees, and spins around. How –dare- that archer creep up on Leoxander, when he was already facing not one, not two, but three assassins? Didn’t he know how to play fair? The elf cracks her neck, sidesteps a dead body, and hurls her knife through the air. The wind is unpredictable up in Frostmaw, though, and so, the witch mutters an incantation beneath her breath, commands the element of air to guide the blade, and beams when the sickening sound of blade meeting jugular strikes the unsuspecting archer. Exchanging a glance with Leo, she watches as he flawlessly executes every maneuver, and takes down his opponents with ease. He would be safe, of that she was sure. “Next time… I will plan the adventure. Okay? I’m going after my sister.” Knowing the wind would carry her voice to his ears, she sprints through the gates, shouldering her way through the crowd until she nearly collides against Taly. The witches look at each other a scant second, before the younger half-sister collapses from the effect of her empathic abilities. Lana, extends her arms out and shields her from an assassin’s blade, which tears right through her shirt. Brown eyes widen as pain surges through her upper form, as the long blade slices into her shoulder all the way down to the opposite side of her waist. Knowing she was cut deep, and that there was little time to waste, she feigns a fall forward. As the assassin aims to deliver a finishing blow, the witch hurls herself backward and literally headbutts him, knowing he was caught off guard. As he raises his gloved hands to cover his face, the witch hurls a fireball at his torso and sets him aflame, before turning tail and collecting Talyara. “We have to leave now. Call your broom and get out of here.” At this, her sister finally listens, and flies off into the night, not noticing that her older sister remains behind, a pool of blood staining the snow beneath her feet. Lana limps to the side of the area, whimpering, and seeking shelter, and she is last seen slipping into one of the tents.


Kaval herd the rush of her pounding heart as the ringing began to subside. It began to sink in the chaos around her as her fingers fumbled to grip the crest of another arrow, nearly spilling her quiver's contents in her haste. Cursing slightly she flickered a glance down to her stock, and as her sights darted back towards the other group resisting the ambush did she notice the lumbering death knight. Jerking to a stop she realizes this barreling boulder of a creature would be far too close a range to effectively shoot at. Dropping to a knee she stuck her arrow tip into the ground, drawing her hand back along her boot to grip the obsidian dagger nestled in place. Too quickly the death knight is upon her, war hammer raised and then an other blast of flames came overhead and twisted about the creature's left flank and head. That moment which it stuttered in its step from the unexpected attack, twisting its head back to see who dared-exposing enough of a slit betwixt the amour plates did Kaval have the opportunity to dive the obsidian blade in and slice through its jugular. Jerking her wrist she felt the satisfactory tear of flesh, however the blade caught itself on the helmet and she was forced to simply let it go as the knight began to collapse. Looking towards Diyon and giving a curt not she grabbed the discarded arrow protruding from the ground and sprinted to the group. Only when giving herself a moment to breathe did she notice a burning pain across her shoulders and arm. However there would be time to tend to that later.


Rorin takes note of someone screaming- Lionel calling his troops to regroup. That certainly seemed like the squires best chance of living, though currently the fear in his heart only tightened the grip on his sword. Others must be afraid too, some all ready dead. It was Rorins own sworn south to protect all peoples and these people certainly needed protecting. A bard played somewhere off to rally the groups and a mage somewhere was cutting swaths through their foes. These people of onyx or obsidian armor and blood red cloth. Sadly Rorins own target had blocked- giving Rorin the chance to parry at the mans hilt in an attempt to disarm him, and bringing down the edge of his near instantly resummoned magical shield, aiming at the mans neck. A soldier took arms with the leather armor clad squire thankfully, as he cast away some assassin. Plans to regroup would have to wait until their individual targets were finished off though.


With the reassuring crunch of his booted foot on the axe-hand of his assailant, Draben’s lunge forward is one of confidence, both arms swinging with practiced ease as they both slice cleanly through the soldier’s neck in two subsequent swipes. The target dispatched, the elf whirls at the sound of a familiar voice nestled in the chaos. Lionel’s shout to rally ringing clear in the pandemonium of combat, the elf bounds forward to answer his call. Kicking off of the snow as hard as possible, the elf barrels forward, curved and gleaming daggers still in hand. Lionel’s position, however, is further from Draben than expected. More accurately, the dangerous of the battlefield make the already inconvenient terrain that much more difficult to traverse, and even with haste he finds himself struggling to quickly rally to a defensible position alongside his new-found allies. Then, a steady flow of energy, trickling at first, begins to renew the ranger’s strength. Distantly, veiled in the carnage of war itself, the sound of song rings out, the traces of magic heavily laced within each and every note. Ducking and weaving through the traffic of the killing field, Draben manages to reach the gates. Quickly sheathing his daggers, the elf tosses the cloak aside and sets arrow on table, the familiar weight and feel of the bow bringing him into a state of focused resolve. The bowstring being pulled back, the elf stands ready for the incoming onslaught of death knights, his arrow pulled taut and hungry for the flesh of his accosters.


Lionel stands, his followers all around him, gauging what comes next. Of Leoxander, it can only be said that his attacks prove effective, his enemies vanquished. Still, they come. Near to him, the bard Loire has frightened off a wicked knight in a most amusing manner. Still, they come. Lanara and Talyara do escape. Kaval and Diryon stand beside one-another, and further enemies come upon them, but they're not quite cornered. An assassin lunges his toxic dirk toward Kaval's neck as she runs toward the group, but her action proves successful, too, and she unites with the makeshift alliance by the gate. Just then, the gate swings open at last. A mad array of Frostmawian soldiers, giants among them, sweeps through the burning encampment like a torrent, engulfing the remaining opposition in a swift stroke of death, lances and halberds and swords drawn, stallions and mares ridden. Rorin's duel continues, but all around him, the full armed strength of the great nation of Frostmaw is finishing this battle as quickly as it began. Lionel turns, breathless. "We need to find the wounded."


Diryon gives Kaval a thumbs up paired with a grin after she properly dispatches the death knight. “Nice one!” Before they can get too comfortable, more assailants approach in an attempt to flank the pair; one mage, one assassin and one knight. Clicking his tongue, Diryon shakes his head and rushes the other caster just as he prepares a spell. “I don’t normally do this, but…” Cutting himself off, Diryon rears back and brings the crown of his staff crashing into the skull of the sorcerer mid-spell; a tooth flies loose and the interruption abbreviates his spell, causing a chaotic wreath of flame to burst forth. It sets the sorcerer himself on fire in his miscasting, but tongues of flame from the errant spell also lick out at Diryon’s robes. Thankfully for the blonde-haired man, the runes upon his garment pulse and writhe to life, resisting the snuffing the worst of the flames before he can be wounded to any serious degree. The proximity of fire and the sheer heat still sears Diryon’s skin and causes him to curse aloud, but the opposing mage is certainly defeated – he lies aflame with a broken jaw as he toils about on the earth, his life violently snuffed out by his own spell. The assassin does not get a chance to attack Kaval or Diryon; he’s skewered in the flank by a lance from a Frostmawian knight, leaving only the other knight to threaten Kaval on the other side. Seeing as the warriors of Frostmaw are rapidly closing in, however, she’ll likely have all the help she desires in dispatching him as well.


Elias can do little more than nod at Lionel's directive. His expression is that of shock, in part that -the- famous Lionel stands before him, much less having saved his skin moments earlier, but the larger part in that there was so much devastation wrought before their eyes in such a short amount of time. But there is precious little room at present for reflection as Frostmaw's justice is being meted out against the failed assailants, and ruthlessly at that -- deservedly so. The injured take precedence now, and that's something with which Elias knows he can help. "However I can aid, let me," he says to the commander, Lionel. "I owe you that much, at the very least. Thank you." As the bard wills that statement out of his mouth, his teeth begin chattering again. It's only getting colder and more malevolent, but there is yet work to be done. His voice weak, he resumes warming himself in song, in the the same way he knows he will soon warm the spirits of those rendered worse off than he this night. Leoxander was done. Panting, struggling, but he stood in a snow splotted with red. A glance back toward the gate proved that Lanara had escaped with her sister, and then he looked down. His black shirt gave away little, but there was a wound in his side dripping down over his hip into the white of the landscape. Again, he whispered a curse. He hadn't quite been able to keep up, and sank down slowly onto his knees to clutch his only wound while one of two knives fell into the snow. A wince fell across his features as he bowed over, just a bit. He had only meant to come here on a work order. He wasn't prepared for all this.


Kaval stared in bewilderment as the new force floods the area around, washing over what was left of the invading force in a sweep of glorious death. The booming crash of the gates being thrown open causing her to jerk around right as something slid across her already burning shoulder, bringing fourth another flair of pain. Cursing she clasped an ungloved hand across the area, applying direct pressure in a pitiful attempt to dull the pain while breathing through clenched teeth. The attacker only had a moment to jerk his blade out wildly before succumbing to the backup forces, only nicking her. Narrowing her eyes in annoyance and pain she spitefully she wonder how long this group took to react to the chaos, neglecting the fact she herself had been stunned by the suddenness of the ambush. Tearing her glaring gaze from the cavalry she finally addresses the mage who saved her three times at this point, “What in all the hells just happened?” she managed to breathe out, finally allowing herself to get a good look around the encampment. What a hot mess, this was not at all the kind of excitement she planned on her expedition down the mountain. Though she might have been able to heal minor things, with her mind as hazed as it was there was no way for her to be able to muster up the concentration needed for that task.


Rorin disarms his opponent and buries his shield halfway through the knights neck, leaving very little possibility of the enemy staying alive for very long. The soldiers seemed to never end however as he would turn, blocking a hammer, then the other way to parry at the shaft of an axe. Rorin would stab up through the neck of one and knock the other upside his head, sending the death knight reeling. Finally he felt he had some room with the large frostmaw soldier behind him. Rorin would look on in shock and relief as the gate burst open and the real army made it's way through. "There!" He would shout, grabbing his new allies attention and motioning to the group by the gate. "Come on!" He would say over the sounds of battle and raise his otherworldly barrier high with shoulder behind it. Rorin would begin a charge through the masses, sending back blades, pivoting to allow his ally to strike forward, slaying enemies at the wayside all the while having his magical shield raised. Clashing with death Knight and assassin and black mage alike the certainly dangerous pair would be finally fighting their way towards the gate group, a blue beacon of a barrier amidst the battle.


With practiced precision the elf’s bow sings as arrows fly true and strike flesh. After firing twice, however, a pair of death knights approach Draben’s position at a full-paced charge. Quickly loading the bow once more, an arrow flies, piercing the chest of one of the assailants and sending him pinwheeling backward to the ground. Discarding the bow, the elf leaps forward as nimble hands draw daggers once more. Flashes of steel flick defensively across Draben’s body as he steps back and parries the blow of the opposition’s sword. The heavy weight of the soldier’s weapon places Draben in a precarious position indeed, as his parries can only fend off the attacker, and the force of the parries is enough to prevent the elf from launching a proper counter-attack. The sword feints left before slashing right, and the elf’s parry is weak. Feeling his hand numbing from the impact, the dagger drops to the snow as Draben leaps backward, tripping over the corpse of another fallen death knight. With a choked cry of victory, the attacker stands forward, ready to deal a deathblow to the prone ranger. Before he can act on his victory, the gates of Frostmaw spring open, releasing a wave of fresh troops onto the battlefield. Pausing at this turn of events, the knight’s blow freezes in the air, arm half-raised to strike. In desperation, the elf lunges forward, planting the dagger squarely in the death knight’s abdomen. The elf dislodges the weapon once more, pistoning the entirety of his upper-body weight into the strike, and plunging the weapon deep into the death knight’s chest. The body tumbles backward and slams solidly in the snow as the troops of Frostmaw hurtle passed the exhausted elf to meet what’s left of the ambush.


Loire chews vigorously, Rozata petal tips protruding from his mouth. He uses a natural break in the music to swallow the restorative and gesture the wounded to gather around him so he can cast a song of healing over them. It's raunchy and excessively detailed, all the better to get the blood flowing again after the wounds close. A couple death knights at the perimeter of his voice twitch and surreptitiously try to slink away, for what reason the bard cannot help but wonder about. "Your bonny lass, Sir Leo, where is she?" the bard asks over the din before launching into a ribald Rynvalian drinking song, as laced in healing magic as the colorful jargon of the sea. Having heard the Frostmaw regular army gathering in perparation to rush out to take control of the situation, Loire ends his side of the duet, standing and stowing fishing rod and broken lute both, content to place his faith in the soldiers' capable hands. Behind him, the gate reopens, unbreached, soldiers pouring out on all sides of him like a flood. After they pass, the bard sees that a crowd has formed just inside the town. That was a rather good concert, if I do say so myself; Loire thinks. He bows magnificently to the audience and sings his last song of the evening, an impromptu ballad thanking everyone who had leapt to the defense.


Lionel races his gaze all across the battlefield, snapping his fingers and swinging Hellfire through the ribcage of a falling enemy soldier nearby. As blood sprays wildly, he sheathes the fabled blade and turns to face Elias. "Don't mention it," he says, oddly casually, before following it up with, "but yeah, medics are in-line with the troops sweeping the skirmish; follow their lead and apply bandages, hold legs, whatever you've got to do." Just as quickly as he's explained, his eyes dart madly for Talyara and Lanara, and at first a certain fear grips his heart, that he's failed them, too. Indeed, he's failed many of these recruits, and their deaths are on his watch, and an unenviable remorse will soon arrive upon him, but right now, at the heart of it all, he cannot let himself think but only to save those that need saving. So it is that when he sees the sisters distantly, headed into the city, toward full safety, he exhales. Beside Rorin, the Frostmawian recruit called Aurig grunts in the affirmative, himself having recently dispatched a sorcerer using only his fists balled into pure unbridled fury. Needless to say, not a pretty sight. In all other arenas, the heroes who have been thrust so rapidly into so sudden a battle emerge victorious, bolstered by Frostmaw's full combat strength. This mystery foe, its true intent as shrouded as its identity, is cut down, to the man. No survivors live to tell the tale, for even those who are wounded and could be taken prisoner simply begin to dissolve, fade away into ethereal black smoke. Snow meets soot when this occurs.


The Blindseer executes the suicide command, peering without eyes through the treeline, looking upon his work. Complete mission success. Seeds of discord, seeds of doubt, now take root at the heart of Lithrydelian civilization. A feint assault, anonymous. The master will be pleased. Not one to leave a trace of evidence, The Blindseer at once erupts into that self-same black smoke which has killed the remainder of his army, dying that self-same death, in the name of a certain king this whole world will soon know.


Rorin rammed through the foes with Aurig until it seems they've won. As suddenly as they come the enemy begins to fade away into smoke. Rorin almost fears another attack but instead his pace slows as he heads towards the gate, looking for survivors to heal as best he can. Unsure of what to do now, Rorins only thoughts are healing the wounded and regrouping with whoever is left in charge.


Diryon remains quite alert until it’s apparent that Frostmaw’s warriors have mopped up what’s left of the ambush force, breathing a short sigh as he turns to regard Kaval. “Great question. When did you come in, exactly?” He points to Lionel in the distance and heads out to meet the man, assuming that the ranger will follow behind. “I was talkin’ with that guy one second and the next thing I know the whole encampment was on fire and those goons were everywhere.” Approaching the man who wields Hellfire, Diryon gives him a smile despite the circumstances. “Rough night, huh? Your lady friend didn’t want to come with me, but I saw her flyin’ off with her sister…she got away safely, but it was close. She wanted to come back to you.” Realizing that he’s still holding his staff, the mage makes a vague gesture with his free hand and the thing seems to dissolve from existence. “Any idea who was behind all this? No doubt it was a concentrated and pre-planned effort, but I know nothing about this place or why they would want to stage an ambush.”


Kaval shook her head, feeling the effects of fatigue beginning to penetrate through her entire body as she responded back to the mage, “Burn me if I know how luck would have me stuck here, I was trying to leave before...well, before this.” she gestured around pointedly with her bow, still clasping her shoulder with the other hand. “I suppose hunting will be cut short this season.” she muttered, shaking her head again.


Lionel blinks at Diryon, moving past the mage and examining a corpse as he's spoken-to. It's Helena. The brash and headstrong Catalian recruit was torn to ribbons by countless feral stabs, and only a pile of soot which covers her arms and hips tells tale of the enemy that did this to her. "No," he growls, rising from his examination. "But I'm going to find them, and I'm going to kill them."


Diryon frowns slightly as Lionel appears to spot a fallen comrade, turning his head away from the sight. “Sorry for your loss.” The mage is not the greatest at sympathy, it appears. “When you do, I’ll help if you need a hand. Magic has its practical purposes as well, but sometimes there’s little more satisfying than unleashing its destructive potential on deserving foes.” Kaval is not completely forgotten, but she’s a step away from the two at the moment and the somber change in mood has left him without his usual zest for conversation and banter.


Kaval tried catching the eye of a passing medic, though with triage taking place the fact she was standing and talking would cause their glaces to glaze over her to more serious wounded. Breathing a slow sigh she stepped back, leaning against the gate's wall closing her eyes and thinking out-loud, “Why kill your own men? You would think them to have some sort of value. If these were nothing, then their forces are much greater to expend these we fought.” Peeking an eye open at the group she spoke a little more formally, “Its Kaval by the way.” Now that things were dying down she was wondering who exactly where these people she almost died with.


Lionel casts his gaze upon the soot, then more soot nearby, and then soot elsewhere as well. Frostmaw's auxilliary forces have slowed, and the medics are aiding the wounded -- and they're aiding Leoxander, too, to be sure, carrying him to safety. Some of the soldiers are doing as Lionel does, looking at all the soot and staring horrified. But Lionel has no time to stare. "Good," he tells Diryon, nodding at him grimly, steeling himself to appear the commander, the patriot. Behind him, Elias is assisting a doctor in saving the life of a woman who may well lose her right arm. These were Lionel's men, and some of them are now dead. "We'll need all the help we can get. Whoever this is, whatever -this- was, it's only beginning. This is a psychological attack, plain and simple, and come morning, all the realm, ourselves included, is going to feel it like a hangover from hell." It's only then that the man has the chance to acknowledge the woman Kaval, and he shakes his head, shrugs, and introduces himself. "Lionel O'Connor. Your help on the battlefield was pivotal and is appreciated to say the least. And... I concur with you. This entire ordeal was secretive prelude. But prelude to what? I don't know. I have a few theories, all of them bleak."


Leoxander would be carried among the injured to whatever infirmary was managed in the snow fields or tavern.


Loire trails his voice off, ending the ballad. Feeling a bit of energy remaining, the bard decides to put it to use to helping heal the injured. He turns back toward the battlefield, and in dismay finds Sir Leo crumpled in the snow nearly directly behind him, blades strewn on the cold ground. He is bleeding from but a single wound, but which as of yet not stemmed its flow. Loire hurries over, singing a short burst of first aid magic over the lycan, and kneels down to resheathe Leo's blades and pick up the larger man, carrying him supported by a wing over his delicate shoulder. To uninformed observers this might be an absurd sight; but in Xalious, it is common knowledge that Avian wings are magic. Loire thus carries Leo to the medical tents and leaves him with the medics before going out to have a night on the town.


Diryon turns his attention back to Kaval, cracking a short lived smile. “Diryon. I usually pride myself on more creative spellcasting, but the circumstances more necessitated efficiency instead.” Smarting at his seared skin that he’d almost forgotten about with the rush of adrenaline and whatnot, the mage grasps at the sleeve of his robe. “Think there might be any clues left behind in all this?” He waves a hand at the carnage. “A long shot, but…”


Kaval smiled weakly and nodded to the two before pulling herself from the wall, “You mages and-eh, things, seem to have a well of endless energy. Not I, though. I think I'm going to follow those medics and get wrapped up before I pass out of exhaustion or other. I guess I'll be around though, this shoulder wont let me use my bow for some time anyways.” Her head throbbed and oddly the more drained she felt the less her wounds ached. Possibly not the best sign, but with that she trailed off to find the infirmary.


Lionel watches as Kaval departs, canting his head by way of farewell. The depths of his loss are beginning to wash over him, as he regards Diryon, feeling quite fatigued himself. "These creatures were brutally efficient at covering their tracks, but a full-scale investigation will be underway in a second." He isn't kidding. Lionel snaps his fingers and then waves about the battlefield, and quite a number of nearby soldiers (as well as recruits brave enough to keep at it despite the horror they've just experienced) all seem to suddenly take their jobs a fair bit more seriously, digging through the snow with their gloved hands and analyzing the wounds found on myriad corpses and more. "If anything's here, we'll find it."


Diryon nods, lifting a hand to stifle a yawn of his own. "Good. I'd help, but I'd probably be bad at it...so, I'll leave it to those that know what they're doing. She was wrong about limitless energy and all that, though. That sudden outbreak of fighting coupled with the hour have me pretty spent." The mage lifts a hand in a half wave, half salute type gesture if such a thing exists. "It was good to fight with you, even if the circumstances were dire. Next time, we'll be better prepared." Nodding now, Diryon turns to leave from the area of the gate, cautious to avoid stepping too close to anyone inspecting the remains of the battlefield.


Lionel is left alone with his thoughts as he surveys the damage. Just like that, the stability he'd surprised himself enjoying has been torn asunder. Just like that, everything he'd feared would one day come to pass has begun to resurface. People who trusted him with their lives... burned alive. For Lionel, it can only be said that a growing dread fills his heart, even as he forces himself to march forward and lead the investigation. The work continues, but no clear trace is found as yet. Although the power itself was somewhat lacking, the ability to strike so fast, so hard, so quietly, and then vanish without a trace has him suspecting something more sinister than he's willing to share with anyone but the queen. "Hilde," he whispers into the chill night air, just as he espies Michael at last discovering his sister's grisly death. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can promise you a measure of peace and prosperity for the realm, after all." War is coming.