RP:The Battle for Rynvale

Part of the Township Troopers Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: Immediately after arriving in Rynvale, Lionel assembles several prominent guild members and their affiliates, including local champion Ranok, to discuss the probability that the insectoids' final lair is somewhere off the coast of the island nation. Briefly, the chances of an attack on Rynvale are brought up as well, but no sooner has Lionel mentioned this than the creatures confirm his suspicions. The Battle for Rynvale begins, with dozens lying dead in the quick, brutal skirmish. When the dust settles, Ranok blames Lionel O'Connor personally for failing to get word out to his city in time, but this claim is rebuked is countered by an unlikely source -- Larewen. And Eirik, recently cast out from the guild, proves that his commitment to good deeds remains with or without his rank.

Rynvale

Lionel | Late-afternoon rain has only served to enhance the pungent smells of Rynvale, from the various deepwater fishes in their barrels by the docks to the spices brought in from merchants further inland and beyond the Lithrydelian Rim. Pirates mingle and move past more honest-minded sailors, with nary a word but for the occasional wince. Scullions haggle with hawkers, and with each other, for the best deals on lean cuts of meat and seasonal gourds. Blacksmiths sharpen their steel and cry out that their maker’s mark is supreme. Ships bearing flags from several city-states and nations, including the fabled Demon Archipelago, line the perpendicular dock. A free trade vessel, thirty meters from bow to stern and with an exceptionally sturdy hull, zigzags past the shoals on her way back to sea. As the sun sets upon brilliant blue waters, Rynvale’s answer is to become that much louder. Lanterns are lit, ale is poured freely, and women of questionable profession stand curiously limber beside lampposts. The same can be said on a smaller, more intense scale for the tavern itself. Every table is taken, and barmaids are swift on their well-trained feet to bring beverages and fresh catches to their patrons. Two grand pianos are being played to two very different tunes, furthering a discord that is already evidenced by the ogres and humans and gnomes and high elves playing stones and darts and kal-to in every corner of the establishment. Lionel has secured a bench in a relatively secluded area beside a fireplace, although he’s gone through no shortage of challenge insisting that this entire bench is reserved. That struggle is clear upon the strain of his face, and those who have been summoned for meeting will find him waving them over with a nod between sips of rum. He’s brought the magister’s cryptic journal logs, as well as the mosaic.

Meri was already present within the Broken Barrel when the warriors begin making their appearances. Her arrival came from above rather than from the entrance, Meri was no stranger to this establishment or the rooms that it rents. The woman in all honestly had little intention of trying to weasel her way into another meeting about the endeavors of the warriors guild. Something about the last expedition had formed this decision. Yet the meeting had been brought to her stomping grounds rather than Frostmaw so why not? This was something she actually had an invested interest in. So she would join Lionel in the space that he has claimed, like it or not. Blue eyes scan the faces entering and joining this little meeting, noting each one. Oline is greeted with a wave when she is spotted, of course. As usual, Meri is not here to make small talk with friends, even if they are spotted. She is quiet, and here to listen.

Oline would have loved to be able to claim that she'd somehow gotten here early on account of dilligence or her sense of promptness. The truth was a bit more dire. In honesty, she'd barely ever left the place for the last week. The thick, heady scent of sweat and sea-salt which permeated everything had taken hold of the half-sized giantess as well. It followed her in the bar proper, where a couple of seedy looking sailors quickly vacated the table which of late had come to be known as 'hers'. One of those scurrying barmaids was quick to arrive with a bottle of bourbon and a glass, but Oline just took the bottle before sending the woman on her way with a swat to the rump and the flash of a gold coin. Her hand instinctively slipped down to her hip, where once she'd stashed her powder-laced cigarettes in the band of her loincloth. Instead it found the thick pouch of herbs hanging at the side of a tattered green and violet robe. She rummaged about through the various clippings inside before finally settling her fingers upon a minty-smelling root and popping it into her mouth. The port city had proven good for the girl, though. She'd found herself a distraction from the screaming voices in her head, studying plants and herbs both from the book half-visibly protruding from her satchel and a rather irritable old herbalist living in a shack somewhere between Rynvale and the northern dunghuts. Meri's presence was noticed first, if only because her arrival in the tavern had almost perfectly coincided with the tatoo artist's descent from the upstairs room. A wave and a smile were offered, toothy and bright, before her butt planted down at her usual table rather than Lionel's reserved bench. She'd been off the grid for so long, she'd apparently not gotten the memo. No... wait... it was arriving right now, in fact. The same barmaid whose rump had gotten swatted came back with an envelope and a smirk. She didn't get a second tip. Or swat, for that matter. "Meeting, eh? Ferraht soddin' now? Shoore ya couldn'tve gotten this t'me enny soonuh? How'm Ah s'posta fahnd a bleedin' ship on... wuh? Here?!" A glance was given in the direction of Meri, who now of course was seated by Lionel. Huh. Well then! "Guess Ah'm right on tahm, then!"

Emrith had arrived in Rynvale some hours before, spending time to wander the city and take in its various sights. He is garbed in a cloak dyed a pure, unblemished white today, though the reason for this is known only to the spell-blade. Heleg and Nahr are in their customary places on the man's back, and he walks with a confident, calculated stride, blond hair rippling in the salt wind. There is no sign of any spidery creatures today - not yet, at least - but there is a good reason for this. As he has walked, seemingly at random, throughout the large city, tiny flickering motes of shadow have peeled away from the ring on his dangling right hand and gone zipping off down side-streets, or in one memorable case, directly into a young woman's eye. By the time she blinked and raised a hand, the little shadowy thing was sitting comfortably within the darkness beneath her sheet of black hair, extruding legs and beginning a slow and painless feed. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of these beastly little constructs are scattered all over the city now, and Emrith Kohl himself none the wiser; he has been rather too distracted by this land he has so rarely visited to do much more than play the tourist. With a start, he realizes that sundown is near, and makes his hasty way toward the Broken Barrel Inn, using elbows and careful steps to part the crowd which throngs the street before the shady establishment. He enters, catches Lionel's eye almost immediately across the crowded floor, and makes a beeline toward him. The vampiric elf looks almost happy...grim, a little drawn, perhaps, but the smile upon his countenance seems genuine. A stark contrast to the way he has looked in recent weeks, and a particularly good mask if the spell-blade's opinion of himself can be counted for much these days. It will have to do. When true happiness cannot be found, a facade must be made and maintained in its place.

Larewen is not on Emrith's heels, as some might expect. In fact, whilst the spell blade walked Rynvale, the necromancer had been working toward solidifying an alliance in Alithrya. Her expression does not denote her success or failure, for it is grim, but with a sort of unease. Something has happened, something to further the elf's discomfort as of late. A pressing matter would need to be discussed with Reginae, but for the moment she was here. As she shouldered open the door, mismatched eyes swept over those present, seeking familiar faces. She is clad in a snugly fitting, verdant gown that bares her scars. Beneath that pale, marred flesh, darkness writhes with a life of its own. The scent of recently used magic hangs heavy around her and for those more accustomed with it, there is a strong smell of something far older than the elf. No false smile curves her lips, but rather a thinly pressed frown as she approaches the space where the others have gathered. The necromancer comes to a halt just behind where Emrith has seated himself, gloved fingers, coated with a putrid goo and pale, gray scales, coming to rest upon his shoulder. Larewen doesn't think much of this, or of how it might stain the whiteness of his cloak.

Ranok enters the room, instantly quelling much of the levity in the room. He had that sort of effect. To say nothing of his reputation preceeding him. Ranok was not the sort of man to spread his myth around. But having had such a heavy hand in the city's life and a goodly participation in the war some years back had an undeniable effect. As well, to say nothing of his following prosecution of the criminal element of the fringes on the city, leveraging a power vacuum to clear out hiding coves, tearing up back room meetings, and just generally making himself an enormous pain in the ass. More then a few hats were tugged a little lower and faces hidden behind mugs. The expression on the smith's face was not doing him any favors, either. This was his island, after all, and as he might have warned Lionel, dragging the bug hunt onto his turf made him less then pleased. Faults or not, when the problems are dumped on a man's doorstep, things change. "Lionel." Booted heels thump into dented wood, "Why did I have to discover that this nonsense was on my island not from you, but someone not even in your guild?" A metal digit is flicked at Meri. "I had figured you smarter then to forget to inform the man that would make all lives easier when his territory was threatened. Did we not speak of this?" There was a harsh edge in his voice. The others that had come were absolutely ignored. Someone takes the opportunity to slip out the door while Ranok's ire was working itself up towards Lionel.

Lionel greets each arrival. Toward Meri, the man doesn’t speak, but he cants his head appreciatively. Oblivious to Oline’s serendipity, he offers a slight grin. “It’s good to see you again, Oline.” The Catalian refrains from mentioning Rorin. It might be smart to address the boy’s recent developments, but Oline carries with her an obvious burden of her own, and he’ll not worsen that load here. Not now. Not when there’s business to be conducted. Making a small mental note to pull her aside later, Lionel reaches for a crumpled old parchment map of the ports and trade waters off Lithrydel’s eastern coastline. With Emrith’s appearance, Lionel’s cheek twitches slightly; a smile? Now this is a surprise. He’s happy to reciprocate, moving to ensure ample room, but when Larewen takes her place behind him, that smile evaporates -- not into a frown, but something more professional and stoic. It’s as well, really, because a stoic gaze is precisely what he’d leverage at Ranok’s thinly-veiled hostility no matter the occasion. “The heck are you on about?” Lionel O’Connor is not about to entertain this. “I’ve only just arrived here. Whether or not you run this joint, I make it a point to confer with the guild first and foremost, because I value the need for my companions to be kept abreast of any dangerous situation. That’s why we’re here, and that’s why you’re welcome here, too. In any case, no one said anything about Rynvale being threatened, although I sure wouldn’t put it past our enemy. We’re here because Meri deduced that the island home to the rest of these bug-eyed freaks is twenty-two kilometers off Rynvale’s shoreline, and I have concerns that they’ll start striking bigger settlements soon. Which means the Warrior’s Guild had best talk shop on securing a ship out to sea. And if I were you, I’d tighten security in town, Ranok. I’ve been saying that to everyone in every city we’ve passed, lately, but given Rynvale’s proximity to this alleged island, well, it leaves me uneasy.”

Meri was guilty of having words with Ranok, yes. This did happen. Though his take on what she had presented is given a bit of a lifted brow, red lips pressed together faintly, for Ranok has managed to make what she had said sound far more concrete than it was. Blue eyes briefly shift toward Lionel and if she manages to catch his gaze long enough, he'll get a shrug that could perhaps be interpreted as 'sorry, man'. Then again gestures are misinterpreted all of the time and as Lionel offers up his own corrections and seems to take Ranok's 'hello' in stride, Meri really does not offer up any defense of what she may have or have not actually said. Besides, by not offering up any sort of defense maybe we can just get back right down to business without having another drama llama at another one of these shindigs. So while Meri waits for everyone to figure it out, or continue to find a way to continue to bicker, she will fish out her tarnished silver cigarette tin from her back pocket. The woman does not bother asking if anyone in the group minds if she smokes, there were plenty of others indulging in this habit, Meri was just adding to the atmosphere.

Oline rose from her seat with a grunt of effort before strolling across the barroom floor toward the rest of the gathered crew. She'd been out of the world a while and it showed in her expression more than she cared to admit. She had no idea what to say... what questions to ask first... so she just pried off her bourbon's stopper and took a much-needed swig. "Tha's pretty soddin' close." was her only remark, before a nearby seat was dragged over and spun about so that she might straddle it backwards. This was definitely one of those times where she'd do better just to listen attentively and play a catch-up game of twenty questions later. Given Ranok's outburst, and the potentiality for other such outbursts moving forward, another bit of minty root found itself plopped into her mouth and chewed thoroughly to a pulp. "Ah'd ask how yeh've all bin, but 'pparently we's already past th'pleasantry bit."

Emrith has seated himself by the time Larewen comes up behind him. The first thing he notices is the smell, the scent of ancient, unknown magic, laced through with the sharper stink of some sort of ichor. And then Larewen's hands are resting on his shoulders, and the spell-blade cranes back to look up at her. He catches sight of one of those hands, encrusted with filth, sullying his cloak, and voices a soft, vexed sigh. "I am glad to see you, love," he murmurs, "but truly, your knack for spoiling nice things is second to none." No edge gives Emrith's words an extra element of rebuke, but he is distracted enough by the half-hostile words passing between Lionel and Ranok that he is unaware of secondary meanings his response might have. Emrith hears Lionel advise the tightening of security in the port city, and his mind begins to wander; goo-streaked or not, the necromancer's hands lend the elf a modicum of comfort, even here and now, in this less-than-ideal situation. Outside, someone shouts in alarm, causing Emrith's ears to prick up to points. Then a bray of drunken laughter buries that sound, and he begins to relax again.In Rynvale, the night has come alive. On hillsides, in city streets, in the back rooms of shops and beneath the docks, violence erupts. Floorboards burst, walls crack, streets heave, sod is torn asunder, and suddenly the city is assailed from all directions, and all at once, by a ghastly horde of insectile monsters. Great horse-sized beetle-like beasts crawl forth, some simply attacking anything they see while others begin to fill the air with a mist so noxious it makes the eyes, noses and mouths of all afflicted run with blood. Scorpion-inspired monstrosities with twisted human faces leap into the fray, slashing and muttering in their strange language as they attempt to sow further chaos. Then come the crickets, leaping from cover, hurling their spike-encrusted bodies here and there, forming large groups wherever they can and beginning to sing. That sound is a high, cacophonous shriek at first, but soon evens out into something that is eerily odd and beautiful. People caught too close to them are soon wavering on their feet, blinking tired eyes and striving hard to fight the pull of sleep, even as the other insects, seeing weakness, move in for the kill. As it would happen, none of these breaches is within sight or earshot of the inn, and so Emrith, and doubtless his other companions, remain oblivious...for the first few minutes, at least. From a couple of the more far-flung tunnels burrowed beneath Rynvale flies a small host of what appear to be crystal butterflies, each the approximate size of the average eagle. They fly silently above the city, likely unnoticed and unseen, weaving to and fro. Their sharp-edged wings make no sound, and their keen multi-faceted eyes are trained downward toward the prey below. Almost as one, the aerial creatures seem to decide upon a course of action, and converge on a place far, far above the Broken Barrel. Pink-lined maws open, tubular tongues extrude from within, and light begins to spill into the air, pale and eerie and focused into a rather tightly-compacted ball by the beating of crystalline wings. And suddenly the butterflies are flying upward, holding their light-ball above them. And far below, a beam of light suddenly lances downward, striking groundward like lightning. As it happens, the inn is not hit directly, but the edge of its roof catches instantly, bursting into a hell of flames even as the butterflies circle around for another pass, perhaps at the inn again, or perhaps somewhere else. Emrith is sitting listening to people talk, observing those around him...and then he hears the whoosh of flame, smells smoke, and does either the smartest or the stupidest thing he can possibly do under the circumstances. He shouts a single word into the relative quite of the seedy inn. "Fire!"

Larewen is in the process of dipping her head toward Lionel and looking toward Oline when Emrith’s remark is made and as a result, the necromancer flinches. The oddly human expression of hurt flits across her scarred features and she draws her hand back, leaving the goo of the rogue naga behind as her hand falls to her side. It is perhaps the most normal reaction to be seen from the elf in quite some time. A dark brow arches in Ranok’s direction, the elf receding into her more bitter demeanor in the wake of Emrith’s unintentionally cold words. Her lip curls slightly, undoubtedly in preparation for a bitter rebuke at the runesmith’s words to Lionel when Emrith’s shout startles her. This has the elf mirroring Meri’s actions, in as much as she produces her own silver cigarette case, places one of the cancer sticks betwixt her lips, and then lights it. She inhales sharply, exhales, then glances toward Lionel. “Not every city,” the necromancer remarks bitterly, not that anyone had been much in the mood to chat after Haath. Wisps of acrid smoke curl out of her mouth and she follows with, “But it looks like they aren’t going to wait for Sir Ranok’s panties to come out of their perpetual bunch, are they?” While she cannot recall any direct dealings with the smith, his reputation certainly precedes him. Cloaked in that suddenly dismal mood, the elf draws away from the group and steps out of the establishment, taking the moment to take in the crystalline butterflies, the flames, the insects, and that crisp, brine-filled night air.

Ranok is no less pleased, "Letters, Lionel. They exist." Needing something to calm himself down, the man is drawing out a cigar, "Proximity to the isle is tantamount to landing upon it. Twenty klicks is nothing. Especially if they carry any tendencies like ant colonies." The cigar is stuck between his lips and lit with the application of elecricity from a fingertip. Immediately, sweet scented smoke, sharp and pungent floats through the room, intermixing with the normal tobacco smells that the bar carried. "Could have saved me sending out my damn scouts to scour the Fog and blasted plains in the beginning of Dragon Season." Cherry red end nub bobs a moment, his anger tucked away. It'd served its purpose, so like any warrior, he'd sheathed it."Don't you worry about the isle. Frankly, the city is, and will be, fine. We're close to the dragon plains. A flying fire breathing lizard is hell. An oversized bug is nothing." A step back towards the door, "May as well get this damn circus started. A ship? I'll get us a ship. Follow." He'd given them all a moment, which he uses to yank a small bottle out of a pocket. A piece of parchment and a pen, which looked quite fancy, and he's scrawling a message out. Reading it over his shoulder was useless, given that it was in the militaristic cypher and shorthand. But before he's stuffed it into the bottle, it flashes in his hands. Red paper. He doesn't even need to read what was on it. Lionel's warning to him had been useless. Vuryal attacked Rynvale, and through the leveraging of several assets, the city had emerged free. Ranok played a critical role, but it hadn't stopped at that point. Through the year, he'd worked without ceasing on improving the city. Several 'donations' of funds to selective projects. Nudges on promotions, promises made and bribes given out. All very tiresome, but the city wouldn't be caught like that again. This meant a guard force better armed then most, with fine steel and cross training. Crossbows made out under a lucrative contract featuring a particularly elegant design, and a firm insistance on regular drilling. Among which of those run drills was one simply marked 'dragon'. Even as the alert was given to Ranok, the alarm was spreading through the city. Such a large upheaval at this time of year, the beginning of spring, where dragons began their mating season. It wasn't unheard of for some young buck flying lizard getting too big for his britches. As the alarm spread, guards were responding.

Ranok || Eyes that had looked to the sky soon found them drawn to the earth, but with weapons in hand. And wheeling out seige engines designed to be portable and to serve to take out heavily armored, pissed off targets. Ranok stuffs his bottle back into his pocket and he's moving. Nothing else in the tavern matter, no one in that room mattered. An orb is now selected from a pocket out of the ever surprising duster. A yank at its base and it splits open, revealing triangular shards of metal. One is pulled, and he speaks to it. "Assemble task force. Full scale attack on the city. This is not a drill." Even as the butterflies are soaring, Ranok is crossing the threshold. A flick and his armor springs to life and the shard of metal is hurled away from himself. Unseen, it twists in the air and homes to a paired partner, carrying Ranok's words elsewhere. Another, "Code Dragon being called. Pull all reserves. Begin evacuations." Another flick, a spark, and it's gone. A third, "Johnny, warm up the Doorknocker." Before he's able to flick it, the light blooms out. There was no flinch at the heat, even as the edges of his duster smoulder slightly, a hand covering his eyes. An addition, "Pull extra netting." Even as the tavern begins to burn, the message is sent out. They thought they could come to his house, his city, and take? There would be no such thing. Rynvale was ready, whether it had wanted to be or not.

Lionel catches sight of Meri’s shrug and his lips twist into a smirk. The smirk deepens at Oline’s mumble, diminishes at Ranok’s rebuttal, and then the roof is on fire, and that puts an end to the whole charade. A dozen possibilities rush through the Catalian’s mind in a frenzy, from brigands to demons to Frostmaw’s enigmatic terrorists, but when the door swings open as Ranok strolls casually and patrons from six or seven separate races scurry into the night, the insectoid menace is confirmed. Besides, that fire is spreading quickly, melting away wooden beams and revealing the strange, almost beautiful butterflies responsible for this mayhem. “No,” Lionel agrees with Larewen, although she’s already halfway to that opened door. “Not every city. But this one.” With a sharp shove, he pushes off from the bench, fetching Hellfire and the prismatic scabbard it rests within from a propped-up position near the hearth. “Every single frakking meeting,” he mutters cynically, taking long strides after whistling for his comrades to follow. “Something always goes wrong. Smacktalk, hurt feelings. This time it’s armageddon. Always something new,” he kicks the door so hard it almost falls off its shingles, “and never any good.” He’s standing there now, with Larewen beside him, soaking in the atmosphere as massive stinkbugs slither toward crowds, extending their feelers and sucking in air for some sort of pending poisonous barrage. The human-faced scorpions are descending from rooftops, clanking their claws together in anticipation of a feast of scullion loins and hawker tenderloin. “Just once,” the Hero of Hellfire carries on, even if Larewen herself is the only one who will hear him. “I want a nice, quiet chat without a single gods-damned thing running amok.” He shakes his head, almost solemnly, and then a streak of emerald flame bursts from the ground behind his boots, and the man becomes a blur, rushing through the night with that trail of heat behind him. It scorches the foes it touches, burning horse-sized beetles and rending scorpions’ stingers inoperable. “Defend the city!” It’s a battle cry, now. “Break their lines! Work together and we’ll get out of this alive!” His sword is lifted high, but not so high as a pair of spiked crickets would seem to have predicted -- they zoom forward, intent to take him in the neck and chest, but he’s halted Hellfire’s swing midway, and a sickening crunch is heard as the legendary-grade steel smacks into those spikes and crushes them. Yet perhaps that crunch is from elsewhere. A woman down a nearby alley, slowed by her skirts, is devoured. Her screech cannot be heard above the twisting of bones, the smashing of vital organs. Her killer is not satisfied; it rolls down the alley on a hundred large legs, bashing people with them until Lionel is riding atop it after a mere flash of red and yellow light to announce his presence. It roars, hate clear in its otherwise-cloudy eyes, but those eyes are soon impaled in a brisk one-two slicing motion, causing the beast to lumber and topple over, frantically. Conscious that time is of the essence, Lionel quickly begins to carve the mythic millipede like a feastday roast before it can recover, but he is only one man. All around him, the denizens of Rynvale could have been lambs to the slaughter. But they aren’t. Armed crossbowmen are taking the fight to the streets, early arrivals at Ranok’s beck and call. Whoever else the runesmith has summoned, they’re undoubtedly en route, although in the interim, the Warrior’s Guild will be hard-pressed to defend this many lives. The Battle for Rynvale has begun.

Meri is not nearly so calm when she hears Emrith's cry of 'fire'. No, that cigarette is pretty much abandoned and stomped on with the toe of her boot lest Meri be an additional reason this place catches fire. Sitting around smoking a cigarette was the last thing Meri was going to do, nor was she going to sit around and look toward Lionel to see if he was going to play the role of leader. Sorry, not sorry on that one, Lionel. It would be to her feet and out the door for Meri because, correct, she would not be staying inside a burning building. Unfortunately, Meri has missed the memo that all warrior's guild meetings are a freaking disaster zone and that these disruptions may very well include more than internal drama. Today the psion is neither armored nor is she appropriately armed for the situation, as had thought it would just be another typical outing at the Barrel. Thanks guys. The woman only a couple of daggers shoved into the back of her boots and little time to dwell on how puny her weaponry is in comparison to the bugs she is facing. Make do with what is available, Meri. Her own mind is the nearest tool available to her, blue eyes setting their sights on the crystal butterflies that terrorize the Barrel. There may be insects aplenty to deal with but Meri is going to focus on one of the butterflies swooping back around to assault the group/the inn with another lightning-like beam of light. Before the attack can be successfully launched by the one bug that Meri does have her sights on, the creature is ripped violently from the sky by seemingly nothing and sent on a crash course toward the ground. Meri's mind and gaze quickly wanders down the street though, to the parlor she works at and the people that she works with.

Emrith is up and out of his seat even before the ringing of his own shout has faded from hearing. The inn's roof is burning merrily, but Emrith cannot spare time for those who might be in the rooms above right now; either they will escape, or they will cook, and it will be up to them to save themselves. His keen eyes have managed to spot light reflected from something in the sky, something that looks crystalline, but this, too, he must ignore for the moment. He charges out onto the street, all thoughts of Larewen and her obviously hurt feelings shoved aside in favour of decisive action. He is just in time to see Lionel mount a millipede and then start cutting it apart, and a rather vile elven curse bursts from between his lips. The spell-blade unlimbers Heleg and Nahr with enough speed that his movements would be difficult to track, then charges into the melee nearby, assailing two scorpions who are trying to make mincemeat of a group of formerly rowdy dockworkers. Garbed in white, looking for all the world like a wraith out of hell, Emrith turns and slashes, dodges aside and presses himself between the scorpions and their quarry. "Back!" he shouts, flicking Heleg's tip toward the dockmen. "Into a building! Out of sight!" They turn and sprint, leaving two of their number on the ground, their bellies slashed and gaping. Dancing the forms brings the spell-blade a measure of pleasure, and he grimly dispatches the two scorpions. But then two things begin to happen in eerie concert. One is the song of the crickets, which now appears to be emanating from almost all points of the city, swelling and rising in a rhythmic, haunting cadence which renders even the spell-blade heavy-limbed and sluggish. The other is a vast, simultaneous exhalation from all of the huge armoured creatures, turning most of the air of the city itself thick and toxic in an instant. Emrith gets one accidental whiff of that poisonous miasma and immediately yanks his hood up over his face. His eyes burn, his throat feels coated in liquid fire, and he cannot see through his own hood, but at least he is spared the worst of it. Townspeople elsewhere, those especially caught out in the open, may not be so lucky, as the toxon burns eyes and air passages alike, bringing blood, coughing, even convulsions among the weak. And that lulling, hypnotic song continues unabated, as all of the crickets formerly engaged in combat seem to have retreated to focus on this greater purpose. Where civilians do not succumb to poison, they often stumble and slump into slumber from that strange, insectile music, whereafter they make easy prey for the beetles and scorpions prowling about. One woman in particular, a woman with a long furl of black hair beneath which a little shadow rests, begins to choke and waver, then falls, asleep and still retching, into an empty street. There is nothing near to take her as a meal, but no one near enough to help her as she gasps and gags and spasms in her sleep. She dies alone, eyes full of blood, froth on her lips, arms akimbo. She dies unremarked, one more casualty in this hellish war.

Eirik is taken back by the sudden onslaught of bugs in Rynvale, having no part of the discussions with the Warriors guild has left him lacking in knowledge. Today the beast of a Northman is in Rynvale, looking for Meri and luck would have him face to face with bugs. “God’s this will never end will it?” His fussing more to himself than any random guard or civilian. Truth be told he hadn’t even realized that his old band of buddies paraded down the street to end the lives of creatures around them. “So be it,” never one leave those in need hanging Eirik pulls free an axe and sword. The first weapon an Elemental-ice throwing-axe which is shape more like a tomahawk and can be used in both melee and ranged. The other weapon is always famous for being tied to his hip; Brann Forbruker. Both weapons begin to hack and slash at the legs of nearby monsters and he is a blur of spins and tracers of flame and ice. For now, he is nearby the tavern and few members of the Guild might perhaps notice the armor clad Lycan; for better or worse. Eirik stood protecting what nearby civilians he could.

Larewen smirks at Lionel, glancing at him from the corner of mismatched eyes. “That’s when you know it is time to withdraw for a bit, but then, that gets boring,” she remarks smartly. “I think we’ve already established that our meetings are ill-fated, regardless of the circumstances. Add in your own spectacular luck and…” A pause. “Perhaps you will do well to remember what Vailkrin can offer, moving forward.” A dip of her head toward the road leading to port shows several undead approaching, these garbed in the colors of House Dragana. Necromancers, no doubt. A moment later, the Catalian has taken action, leave the elf to greet her own. When the song of the crickets begins, it is upon these creatures that Larewen focuses her efforts. Stepping to meet the lesser necromancers, she instructs them, sends them to spread out, to seek the myriad sources of that awfully lethargic melody. They spread, each taking a street on their own whilst they ready their spells. Around each necromancer, the air begins to thicken with little consideration for the living. It serves a dual purpose of dispelling that horrid miasma as they move, and of deafening their ears to the deadly song of the insects. Larewen, too, watches the dark haired woman fall. The pair of men not so fortunate to duck back inside the building that they’d left with the others are noted and already, the necromancer is calling upon her own unholy magic, reanimated the fallen, unfortunate souls to use as fodder against the creatures. Meat shields, really, for the strings the elf pulls do not bring their souls back to them, but rather makes use of their bodies alone. The dead become protectors of the living, escorting them to safety. Larewen does not yet join in the fray, for her focus is on aiding those that cannot save themselves. It is yet another odd stance for the elf to take up, but she does it nonetheless.

Ranok takes off his hat. The duster is loosened, then secured so it did not fly loose. There were too many useful things, and tricks for it to be discarded entirely. His bottle was chiming for his attention, the reports flowing in. But he did not read them, and wouldn't for some time. There was trust, there, in his network. He did not pick idiots or the faint of heart to be the commanders of the Sun Mercenaries, that merry band of hand picked hardened men and women. Particular skills, experience, or sheer resourcefulness was a repeating mantra in the company. It was those men and women who'd he'd summoned, He'd given them an overview of just what the hell these things were, but seeing was different then hearing. If Lionel had saw fit to give Ranok a proper warning, rather then a trickle from Meri, things might have been different. More organized and prepared. Each life today was the fault of the lack of foresight. There'd be an accounting for that later. Of that there was no doubt. Even so, the drilling had paid off. Training with the crossbow was saving lives as ugly faced scorpions were treated to a souped up delivery of kinetic energy. Constant thrust and turn with a modified poleaxe was giving soldiers reach to keep the insect hordes at bay. His summoned soldiers were heading into the city from the north, securing up that ingress. The guardsmen of the city were mundanely armed, but Ranok's handpicked had the best of the best. An exotic array of weaponry from overclocked crossbow to a man who seemed to slowly becoming a pinwheel of death, arms and feet in constant motion and building up a cresendo of kinetic energy that destroyed anything in its way. And least of all was a late arrival, slow to come by virtue of his charge. Towards the inn, guardsmen were forming up a line, lieutenants bellowing to their men. Some of the guard remembered Vuryal's army, headed by the shape shifter Ordox. Others were shaken, weapons quivering. But that was the point of drills. Where nerve failed, training filled. Ranok's presence had a bolster. He'd served as a figure then, and would now. From a shed burst out two men wheeling what looked like a highly efficient ballista on wheels. Ranok snaps a hand, "Load netting! On mark!" Instantly the order is obeyed. Stripped of the oversized bolt and a cylinder is placed in its stead. Within was an incredibly expensive woven net of ghroundium, capable of tangling even the wings of Frostmaw's ancient frost dragon. Oversized butterflies wouldn't be much of an issue. A finger is extend and Ranok releases a spark to denote where the aiming was to be done, "Mark!" The ballista bellows and the netting soars skywards, "Keep those skies clear! Form up defensive! Pull out flame retardants!" Drawing his own crossbow, the smith fires out projectiles into any target that presented itself, rending carapace or flesh alike. The citizens were clearing out, following paths that were drilled into them as children. The rampages of dragons and hurricane were not new, and shelters were many and shored up to attack. If the claws of a hungry adult red could not rend through, then even these oversized insects would be given pause.

Ranok || Seeing the air being cleared by Larewen, he drops a prepared summoning of the wind as he'd done in Frostmaw, instead indicating to his crew to pick up gas masks. The poisonous breath of greens had been taken into account, though there wasn't enough for all. Still, a protective barrier of air was moving around the smith. The origins of the poisonous air were still needed to be dealt with, as well as those crickets. Their harmony was being equally held at bay by a quivering of the air and the stench of ozone. Ranok's armor was fully aware and awake, the trio of blazing blue lights a steady image on the field of chaos. "Lionel!" The smith bellows, lungs used to projecting over the roar of forge and battle alike, "Kill those damn things!" A heavy hand at the crikets. A snap choice, to send the hellfire to the crickets. He wasn't sure if the gas was flammable, but he'd be damned if Lionel set the city ablaze before he had a chance to put it all out. Even after the order was issued, the street quivers again in a steady rhythm. But this was no insect, instead a hulking thing of metal and runes. A crude construction by Ranok's standards, it was nevertheless an effective one. As big as a giant, but squat, with no head. Thick arms ending in a crude three fingered hands large enough to casually pick up a cart and throw it aside like matchsticks. Its legs were digigrade, terminating in a chickenfooted design that cracked the stonework as it moved. At the center was a clear viewport of alchemically treated glass, showing a man with slicked back hair sitting inside. A golem with a man inside, in essence. As it arrived, it cut a swathe through the horde with a slab of sharpened iron attached firm to one arm. As it swung, nothing but twitching limbs and ichor remained. Now and again a bell gongs as a ballista strapped to the other limb fires freely, turning some creature into a fine mist of disgusting parts. It seems that Ranok's little special backup had arrived.

Lionel finishes the millipede with a neck stroke mid-leap, landing beside its writhing corpse to hear what at first his brain perceives as a return of that strange, two-piano discordance. Then the melody synchronizes, and he hears it all around him, but it takes sluggish seconds for the man to rationalize the origin. Crickets, he realizes, but his eyes are blinking overmuch, and they feel so heavy -- why do they feel so heavy? Nearby, a scorpion perceives his hesitation, and it latches itself to his back and whips its claws past his sides in a rush for his unprotected stomach. A sharp, nigh-unfathomable pain assails him, causing Lionel to grit his teeth and suppress a screech. His insides feel like they’re rebelling, and his vision goes dark, and he wonders if this is the end. With that heavy weight on his back, he’s barely been able to move, although the weight has been lifted now, even as his vision grows darker and darker still. Perhaps in death a man feels weightless. His arms, however, feel like they have moved in a significant direction, and he can sense himself tossing a dead body from the tip of his blade. And it occurs to him, in that instant, that his stomach was never struck, and that he’s lost sight of his surroundings and his innards are roiling because he’s trapped within a poisonous mist. Under conventional circumstances, the Catalian would be half a block from the mist in the span of a few stray heartbeats, but he’s taken in too much of the stuff, and the little-known survival trick -- Halycanos, the Ishaarite spirit of fire within his sword, helping to regulate his vitals -- the trick is only helping him to remain conscious. He takes a spirited step forward, expecting supernatural speed to help jet him out of peril, but nothing happens. It’s stalemate; Halycanos is too busy keeping him alive. Another spirited step, a hand cupped over his mouth and nostrils, but he can feel his legs beginning to buckle. Maybe death’s back on the menu, after all. Far beyond the mist, a considerable gathering of frightened townsfolk have stepped behind Eirik, trusting the lycan with their very lives. His unexpected arrival has spared them from the horde. He is their defender now, his attacks striking their predators swiftly. Nearer to the mist, a necromancer is behaving in a similarly heroic fashion, and the miasma has ceased its swelling; now it’s shrinking, and then being set aside like nothingness, and suddenly Lionel wheezes and chokes and falls to the stone ground. That this is the first breath he has taken since he thought he’d heard pianos. Something Larewen had said moments ago rings true. No matter what Vailkrin’s populace may think of Lionel, he’ll not be inclined to take the abilities of its leadership for granted. Ballistae blast the bugs into a pulp down the streets, pushing back the vile creatures such that by the time House Dragana’s forces reach them, they’re the ones on the defensive. The crickets’ song ceases with a harsh, prolonged yellow note, and the scorpions are no match for Lionel’s own fury the second he steadies his breathing. His eyes may be bloodshot, his throat may be sore, but his wrath is complete. By the time all is said and done, the allies’ combined might proven, only pockets of the foes remain. Some to tangle with Eirik, others near Meri’s salon, breaking the shutters in search of a quick meal before their escape. The Battle of Rynvale is winding down, almost as quickly as it began. And as Lionel approaches Ranok, nibbling his lip and utterly destroying a wasp-like menace with a single fell sweep of the sword, his voice is strained but he has a few simple words to carry forth an unfinished, out-of-place conversation. “I sent a damn letter.” He sighs, spits, and kills another wasp. “Frakkers have eyes all over the damn place, and I’m not talking about that Gualonese queen bee.” Another wasp falls. “They’re clearing out now. Let’s wrap this.”

Meri is too lulled by the song of the crickets, until Larewen with her undead are on that problem at least in this vicinity, but that does not keep her safe from the toxic air. One issue solved, another soon comes up. Eirik too is spotted with his dual weapons and it almost occurs to Meri to try and selfishly claim one of them for herself, but no. There are several capable individuals holding things down here and while perhaps the force that Ranok has worked to assemble within Rynvale is proving themselves more than capable down the way...Meri does not know that, not until it is witnessed with her own eyes. So sorry, warrior's guild, the truth is that none of people here really are in need of Meri's support. It may be sad that Rynvale citizens are suffering and dying, Meri has probably even had conversations with a few of them or done a tattoo up for them, but there were other places and faces that the woman needed to check on. It is down the docks Meri goes, her pace a brisk one but she still has not shaken off the effects of the crickets song or perhaps even the toxic air and her footing is not as sure and confident as she dodges and weaves around this bug or that guard were she not suffering from lethargy. Or poisoning? Hm. Neither here nor there for the woman is gone and any who actually know Meri know that the first stop on her list would indeed be SoulsKin. Priorities. How far she makes it from there is anyone's guess.

Emrith is hooded, wobbling and somewhat the worse for wear. His death-count is considerably smaller than most - only a couple of scorpions - but suddenly, through the haze descending on his mind, a single thought pierces through, illuminating his brain with sudden, insistent urgency. "Larewen!" he shouts, and his voice is muffled within his own hood. The song of the crickets suddenly trails off in a discordant chirring screech, and the air around him changes consistency almost on cue, as if most of the toxic gas has been dispersed. The spell-blade lowers his hood, but does not breathe. His eyes are still smarting, his throat still raw, but the air has only a vile spoiled-meat taste in the wake of that ungodly stench; Rynvale will likely be a far more aromatic place for a little while. He looks around, taking note of the various guards, siege engines and countermeasures he can see from his admittedly small point of vantage, then turns to head across a relatively empty street toward Larewen, who he can spot some distance away. "It is good," he says rather more loudly than necessary, "that this was not a full-scale invasion. It could have been so much worse. The city has held up well, but how many have died, how many wounded, how many scarred? This threat is one not to be taken lightly." Inwardly, the spell-blade winces at the need to be so forthright when speaking of what may happen in a cloudy future. "Proof, if we needed it, that we are not done with this, and that it is not done with us." Emrith coughs, spits bloody phlegm into a gutter, gives Ranok a quick nod on his way past, then takes a place next to Larewen. In a softer voice, a voice that has a stronger rasp than normal in it, Emrith speaks softly to the necromancer; now that the battle appears to have wound down, his mind has found the freedom to fall upon that which had troubled it before. "I am sorry, Larewen," he says to her. "What I said about spoiling fine things...it was a joke, and nothing more. Not meant to hurt you personally. Truly, I mean that."

Eirik takes no time to examine the well mustered defenses of Rynvale brought forth by Ranoks efforts. He pauses not once for the Necromancers magical act. The crickets song reaching even his ears, but he fights such things with blind rage and utter determination. Berserking through foes who come before him, defying every scrape, nick and cut that would render others in hellish pain. Just before fatal strike would be blown upon his own flesh, axe hits the ground - freezing the very floor before him. The bug slips and berates the small icy patch of ground with a solid crash upon it. Brann claims its life with a singular angry thrust. Eirik panics as one starts to slip past him, but he is quick to react. He twists the back end of his axe into its maw, yanking the creature from the gaggle of civilians who have gathered nearby; saving yet another from being a meal. Ice crackling out and freezing portions of its jaw in defiance of its strength. With such an opening created, his runic longsword scythes through the creatures head in an act of grim violence. The last nearby wasp is on the receiving end of an axe throw after it is mercilessly yanked free from maw of the previous bug. The northman finally draws deep breaths, rage swelling up within him and feet press him forward to the carcass of the now dead flying creature. The axe is pulled from frozen target and silver eyes flick amongst the few who have gathered to defend. Meri is noticed as she takes her leave, but Eirik is intent on the task at hand. He would hunt her down at the shop later.

Ranok continues to snap out orders, maintaining the order and the ranks as necessary. While he did not leap into the fray, he'd kept the line strong by virtue of force of presence and a liberal application of superior firepower. Even as things die down and the enemy ebbs, weapons drooping and people beginning to think beyond the next breath, and another swing of the sword. Thumps denote the arrival of the so called Doorknocker, covered in gore and bits of bug, followed by a gaggle of people wearing a hodgepodge of personalized gear with the only common thread being a stylized image of Sol upon a shoulder. "Sweep the city. Find the entryways of where these came from and mark them to be sealed. They will not be returning into this city the same way again." How they'd managed to dig through solid continental and oceanic plate, where not even the drow had managed, was to be puzzled out later. The night was just beginning for the smith. Even as Lionel stumbles to the smith, the Catalian is afixed not with any measure of gratitude, but by a cold stare. Fury as never before is wrapped around the smith, "A letter." The words, spat as hard as any projectile his weapon could throw, are hurled at Lionel. "Spies and eyes, and you knew that a letter might not make it. And that was all it remained." A long moment, and something crosses over Ranok's face. His fury condenses down to a single point and nearly flashes hot. A single twitch of his hand and Lionel would be ended, speared to the wall. But it does not come. Somehow he manages to hold onto it. "I lay every one of these lives at your feet, Lionel." Another long moment and he's turning from him, "Take your wounded. And get the ever living hell out of my city while I clean up what should not have happened." The gods knew he still needed that bastard wielding an overpowered sword, but there were limits. His people that he'd sworn to protect were bleeding, years of careful work and preparation burned into cinders. Untold resources squandered, and aces revealed. Tonight was not a happy night, regardless of faults. Lionel was just a reminder of that. Without a further word, the smith is leaving the group to tend to what needed to be tended to.

Larewen :: The necromancers, upon finding their query, would proceed with differing spells, each of which would sound the death knell for the crickets they encountered until eventually, there was no need to dampen the sound of their songs. Larewen’s own spells remained active for as long as was necessary, guiding their puppets in a macabre dance until all that were at risk were safely tucked away. Only then would their awkward lurching cease and the elf’s unholy magic disentangle from their limbs. When her consciousness is drawn fully back into her own mind, rather than guiding the bodies in their task, her gaze falls upon Emrith. His apology is met with a grimace and a faint curl of her lip. “It was in poor taste,” she hisses at him. “But it is not wrong, either.” Her nostrils flare as the smell of his blood, cast by that glob of spittle, reaches her. Then it was her turn to bite into him as she follows with, “After all, I may have a habit of spoiling nice things, but -some- nice things crave that ruin.” Her words are barbed, indicating that the spell blade invited his own darkness, his own ruin. For a brief moment, she reaches into a pocket sewn into her gown and withdraws a glittering, emerald stone. It is flicked casually in Emrith’s direction, and should he catch it, he’d likely recognize it for what it is: a managem, imbued with her own magic in case of emergency. In case the elf pushes herself too far in the upcoming battle against… against whatever this is. A haunting melody parts her lips, calling her necromancers back to her side. Not all of them return, but if this bothers the elf, she shows no signs of it. Casualties are a consequence of battle, after all. She moves to approach Lionel and the others, to learn the next course of action. Whether or not she forgives her lover for his words remains to be seen, but her focus has shifted as Ranok’s bitter words are spewed at Lionel. This has the elf’s lips twitching even as Ranok turns away. To the Catalian, Larewen’s mismatched eyes soon wander as she studies his features. For the briefest of moments, under those grotesque scars, rests the visage of the elf she’d been prior to her death, prior to everything that had twisted her and, oddly enough, she reaches a hand out to the other’s shoulder. “The toll would be far higher were you not here,” she offers, her voice a strange mix between matter-of-fact and… an attempt at offering comfort?

Lionel watches Ranok depart and Larewen replace him, staring at the man with a grimace that could cut glass. How many times is the Catalian fated to hear those words, no matter his best efforts? If Brand were here, he’d pop a cork on a wine bottle and tell Lionel the best cure is a good swig. If Khitti were here, she’d do the same exact thing, except she’d follow it up with a fireball to Ranok’s backside. It’s a comforting, irrational thought, made so by the heated angst building in Lionel’s chest, but it’s broken by the memory of how Caedan Navarre would have reacted. If Caedan were here, she’d push the proverbial dagger deeper in his heart, forcing him to look at these corpses, forcing him to see. Despair clutches at Lionel now, despair that can only be dispelled by one of the least likely sources he’d ever have anticipated. For there Larewen stands, a hand on his shoulder, just the right words. He gasps, stifles an unsightly and uninspiring sob, and urges forth a smile. “Or you. Or Emrith. Or him.” Lionel’s azure eyes flicker to Eirik, only just now taking in the man who had appeared as if out of nowhere, spontaneously generating next to the guild in a time of great upheaval. He keeps that lingering stare to the lycan, takes a few steps past Larewen, and then a few more, and then a few more after that. He’s heading down the road, in the direction Meri took. “I’m gonna find her,” he says, hs voice crisp with confidence refreshed. “Make sure she’s alright. Eirik, if you wanna tag along, I could use the backup.” It signals an end to embitterment toward the man. And something else happens, too. With every step Lionel takes, his eyes take in the corpses. Caedan has no hold on him now; Lionel is a man reborn, well aware of his actions.

Emrith :: By this point, Emrith has sheathed his swords, convinced that if any further threats are incoming, he can draw them again and leap to the attack. This leaves his hands free when Larewen tosses him an unexpected gift. The vampiric elf reaches up and catches the managem, which he had seen from the corner of his left eye as it left Larewen's hand. "Thank you," he says tersely, placing the small device in a pocket of his white cloak. He may be thanking her for the gem, or may be responding with sarcasm to her comment about people inviting ruin upon themselves; the briskness of those two words, and the dead neutrality of his face, make it difficult to tell. He stands near the necromancer, relatively unhurt, appearing at his ease, listening to yet more hostility from Ranok. Emrith regards the man soberly; his ire is understandable, but there is a time and a place for such things. As Emrith opens his mouth to speak, deciding on the spur of the moment to add another and perhaps saner voice to the exchange, Ranok turns away, and Emrith decides not to harry him on his way with any further words. A decision almost made in haste can be regretted in leisure. Instead, he composes himself, opens his mouth and calls out to Eirik. "Your timing and your aid will not be ignored this day. Each one of us is weaker than the sum of our strength. I believe that many disagreements can be mended with the right words, many trusts repaired with time and a little diligence. Humility is something we all need." Letting those words linger, Emrith turns aside, facing Larewen fully now. He just looks at her though, for once not saying anything.

Eirik twists his head to the remaining forces and finally to the citizens at his back, clearly appreciative of his random arrival. Truthfully, if he had not sought to have more work done by Meri, the berserker would not have even come to this island. This fight must have been fated and Eiriks bloodied frame twists to the group now chatting in the distance. Steps bring him ever forward and close enough for Lionels words. Emriths words are noted and Eirik responds with a nod in passing. “Words often fail in the face of action.” He would pause for a moment, still catching his own breath. “And words without action are nothing more than poison.” True to his northern traits, even when pride was on the line. Lionel is regarded for a moment and Eirik does indeed take up the trail to find Meri. She was a good friend of his and though he did not march with the guild he would accept help in aiding her.

Larewen is watching the Catalian’s departure, lips pressed into a contemplative frown. She knows his suffering. Perhaps not on the same scale as him, and certainly with a lot less guilt, but she knows it. She knows how one’s actions can weigh heavily on their heart and a gloved hand raises upward to cover her own. Her fingers curl inward slightly, as if she is clutching at her chest, and she mimics, for the second time in the past month, her ex-husband. An inward draw of breath, and then an exhale through a close-lipped grimace puff out her cheeks. Feeling is a damn shame, honestly, and Larewen hates it. Finally opening her mouth to free that held breath, she surveys the area. Her gaze finds Emrith once more and for a moment, she appears surprised. His silence stuns her and she remains motionless, standing there in middle of a street littered with bodies, both of innocents and insectoid creatures. She doesn’t think Lionel or Erik need her help with Meri, and so she is left there with her own. Her gaze moves past Emrith, to the other necromancers that had come with her. “Aid the locals,” she commands, waving them off. Her lover’s silence is met with her own thereafter.