RP:The Snakes in Strauss
Part of the Dissonance Theory Arc
Summary: On a tip from the Rilla from a year into their future, Lionel, Sargaso, and present-day Rilla travel to Strauss, a small hamlet in Venturil's northern forest region. They expect an imminent thrall attack but are unprepared for certain added implications. It seems that Xicotl has ways of possessing people from the current cycle without transforming them into zombie-like creatures, and a mysterious pink mist may be responsible for the trick.
Vigilanti Semper
The rain had been relentless. It had poured for the better part of two days, and it was only when the peachy sky of dawn was all but completely cloudless that Lionel believed that it was over. The courtyard was covered in mud and the few Guild members and their allies who were up at this early hour were grumbling over that while Vigilanti Semper's head farmer, Mackabee, cheered for the wetness of his precious crops over by the arboretum. Cows were being milked down near the stables and sheep were being sheared in the open field nearby. But beyond all that, Semper was silent. Until the Tikihflee's awakening. Blue-eyed and with a coat of fur as white as snow, the feline -- members of their species appeared more like oversized house cats than any known leopard or panther -- demanded to be rubbed on her neck and rolled over purring loudly enough to knock wooden boxes to the ground beside her. At least the horses were ready. Lionel was seldom sure how his guild members intended to travel; more often than not, he would gesture to a wyvern or steed only to be told that the potential rider moved faster on two legs. Well, so did he, in fact, but wyverns and horses were handy to have around. He didn't know Sargaso very well, so it was possible the lad would be glad for a mount. It was also possible he sprouted wings and flew wherever he went. Lithrydel was weird. In any case, Sargaso and Rilla were about to arrive. They'd been asked to come prepared for a dangerous scouting operation "which could turn into something more." Senior members of the Warrior's Guild would have assumed as much but it was probably for the best that Lionel told at least poor Sarge. The Imperator had just managed to put his Tikifhlee at ease with a healthy helping of minced meats when he anticipated the others' arrival.
Sargaso thanks the Gods for the rain. The sailor hides it well, but he’s often nervous when he’s expected to perform heroic acts far from Selene’s bosom, the ocean. The rain is a good omen and perhaps even blessing. The paladin likes to believe Selene asked Hind for a favor, just for Sarge, just so he could have access to water should the going get tough, It’s a fantasy in which only the truly faithful indulge. Sargaso also indulges in a second fantasy as he comes through the cow paddy and eyes a buxom milkmaid. He looks just long enough for her to feel it and look up at him, he looks away with a sly grin, she smiles bashfully and looks down with a blush. Nice, she’s available -- but later. He continues moving. He has a mission. “Hi, Sir, uh, Lionel.” Damn. He forgot Lionel’s surname already. Off to an embarassing, bad start. He straightens up and glances at the horses. The sailor has no wings. He cannot fly. He’s ridden a horse, but his skill is intermediate on a good day. He’s fast in a kayak, though. Why the heck did he sign up for a land-locked expedition? At least it rained.
Rilla spent the night in the walls of Vigilanti Semper. Despite being functionally a drifter she’d found refuge in a few places across Lithrydel, this being one of them against all odds. Sleeping inside did not, however, mean that she would show up looking *prepared* for the event. Looks could be deceiving. A black cloak pulled around her shoulders and up over her head, the rain bouncing off suggesting that it was treated with something or other. Soaked to the bone was no way to be and the rain showed no signs of quitting now. She slinked through stone hallways, a hand rested on the hilt of a new blade, a claymore with gold plating around the guard. Certainly not her taste, but considering she took it off a body, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Otherwise it was Rilla As Usual, fingers tapping against the new prop the moment she paused, eyeing the horses from a distance. “Ah, you didn’t tell me we were riding, Lionel.” She crossed her arms over her chest, “If you two don’t have a preference, I definitely do.”
"We're riding," Lionel replied. "Unless we aren't. That's always the question. I just never know what to expect with people anymore. Why, just a few minutes ago I was wondering what the odds were that Sargaso… er, never mind." Without further ado, he hopped atop his Tikihflee and let the other two travelers handle the horse debate. Per Sargaso's surname memory issues, there was no attempt at correction. Lionel couldn't remember Sarge's surname, either. Leader or not, Lionel didn't deserve to have the market cornered on self-importance -- they'd both be uncertain until eventually they weren't. "So, here's the deal. Rilla, your future self told me what transpired in the first few months of the war with Xicotl. Tomorrow, a hamlet called Strauss is wiped clean off the map. Burned down, its people slaughtered and turned into thralls. Next to the upcoming battle near Frostmaw -- the one that Rilla said killed thousands of us -- I suppose it's peanuts. But peanuts or not, people's lives are at stake. It took me a bit to figure out where this Strauss even is." It was almost as if the continent was a game and the game's map only listed official locales. "But I finally did. It's almost directly north from here some forty-five to fifty kilometers. Up in the wooded area around those parts. I think there's a lake, too. Maybe some chickens." He paused. "Anyway, we're gonna go there. If -- and when -- Xicotl's forces show up, we'll surprise them something fierce."
Sargaso suppresses the urge to cock a brow when Lionel wonders about some odds surrounding Sarge himself. What? But the sailor, accustomed to the rigid hierarchy of a ship, does not question or sass his captain. He listens to the plan, nods here and there as a nagging thought eats at the back of his mind. He is criminally under-dressed and under-armed. The paladin wears leather traveling pants, hard leather boots, a light tunic under a jacket, a utility belt with a bit of rope, a canteen, a sailor’s knife, a dagger, and that’s it. At least it rained. He hops onto the horse’s back fluidly. He isn’t a very experienced rider, but his agility shines through every physical movement. Once the trio are on the road traveling at a good clip, Sargaso asks, “So, who is Xicotl?” He horribly and confidently mispronounces the name.
Rilla shrugged, “they picked horses that are broken, whether he can or not he’ll be fine.” Rilla waved a hand dismissively, looking over the other man top to toe. After a beat she lowered her hood, approaching the closer of the horses with an open hand. She nodded along while Lionel spoke, but her hand rested on the neck of her horse, fingerless riding gloves on each hand. Rilla generally kept small arms and dressed in all black, this was no exception. A dagger glinted from within her left boot, a second at her right thigh and a well-timed breeze revealed others on leather straps around her body. Of course between the claymore she wore outright and the bow and quiver of arrows she slung over her shoulder gave her away anyway. “Do we know anything about where they came from? We ought to head them off before they hit the hamlet.” She suggested, easily mounting the horse left behind and swinging her leg over the other side to follow. Rilla sat back in her heat, reins loose and her hood once more pulled over her head, auburn braid pulled back into it to keep it dry. Although Rilla had no other input on the matter, she snorted at the horrible mispronunciation, chuckling to herself.
The Ride
The ride went well and as swiftly as the horses willed it. Lionel's Tikifhlee, after all, was holding herself back (to her own moderate chagrin) in order to avoid vanishing into the horizon. Who is Xicotl? Quite the question, but then, not all that tough a question to answer. "Xicotl," Lionel began, "has existed for hundreds of thousands of years. I don't know how big it is, but its network of tendrils runs across much of Lithrydel's underground. Wherever its core body is, I can't imagine we'll get lucky and find anything diminutive. If that was it -- some weird bug-thing stretching to the ends of the realm -- I'd shrug and say we've heard of weirder. And, you know, we probably have." Lionel actually shrugged. For emphasis. "Trouble is, the damn thing wakes up and gorges on surface-dwellers every so often. That means us. It also means cute things, like foxes. And that's just as bad. We found out about Xicotl several months ago, when the ground began to quake down in the Southern Sage. Pretty soon, we learned that Xicotl likes to spare a percentage of its prey every cycle, turning them into mindless husks, thralls, to help expedite the next, distant cycle. And since the cycle is less than a year from happening again, we've gotta stop it from happening." It must have been a lot to take in. Somehow, Lionel got the impression that Sarge would roll with it. "I like your plan," Lionel at last answered Rilla. The sky was bluer now, and the distant roars of dinosaurs -- Venturi was a hell of a place -- could be heard from afar. The cracks and crags and badlands held flat enough routes for the team's mounts to appear fine, at least for now. If it got much hotter, a break could be needed before their arrival. "Sadly, we don't. Your ill-fated counterpart only knew of the attack after the fact. The ground had opened up right at the center of the hamlet, so our best guess is that the thralls struck there rather than traversing to their targeted town. But we don't even know that for sure. We'll mosey on in, grab a drink, chat up the townsfolk. Maybe play a game of darts. Who knows what these people are into."
Sargaso is struck by Lionel’s overly casual tone while discussing a world-ending phenomenon. He does not fall into the trap of believing he should mimic that ease. He’s brand new, a foot soldier, and eager to not make a bad impression on Lionel or this hot babe Rilla, who is a bit intimidating and, given her contribution to the plan, a lot more experienced than the sailor. Sarge also notices that Lionel has both a large house cat mount and a fondness for cute foxes. Huh. He didn’t expect that. Into the furries. “Understood, Sir. Like a land kraken, or giant squid.” After Lionel explains the attack from below, Sarge adds helpfully, “If there’s enough groundwater, I could tap into it and use divination to pinpoint their exact location, numbers, route.” His horse pants heavily, oppressed by the heat and itching for a drink. Sarge places a hand on the creature’s broad, sweaty neck and whispers an incantation. Water wicks of Sargaso’s tunic and sweeps into the horse, hydrating it through a divine osmosis. The horse pants a little less.
Rilla, truthfully knew little more than anyone else despite apparently having lived through the end of the world (and subsequently ceased to exist? Who knows.) so as Lionel spoke, she listened. The quiet, sarcastic, brooding thing was a tough sell some days but today Rilla was committed. “Hopefully a year in the future this time I know to give coordinates and do my own research the first time.” She quipped, her hood once more pulled from her head as the weather finally clears. “So, O’Connor, our plan of attack is to show up and play darts?” She lofted a grow, a lopsided grin edging over her lips. “I think I like -” Rilla turned in her saddle to face Sargaso, head tilted slightly. “I forgot your name, but I like your plan.” Had she still been human she’d have flushed with chagrin. Names were hard and Rilla had a lot going on what with her future-saving antics and frequent body-hunting. “But are they coming up from the depths? Could we try to evacuate the civilians who aren’t prepared to fight with us? Minimize the casualties and cut down on the size of their army for the next sprint of the metaphorical race.”
"Yep," Lionel said simply. "That's the game plan. Darts are no good when your opponents are all dead. Or zombified. We'll get 'em out of there. Hopefully, they'll believe our story. Places like this, they're so far off the map that I wouldn't be surprised if they've never heard of Kahran. Or Gigi, for that matter." Into the furries, indeed. "Sargaso, that's a damn good plan. I reckon a place like this has a well, and well, a place with a well is, well, good for groundwater." This man was the leader of an organization that had quite literally saved the world before and intended to do so all over again. Verbally, that was a tough sell. Through the badlands they went, and out into verdant grassland flatter than Old Rimby's flattest pancakes. A lake could be seen in the distance, and the outer rim of a cyprus-and-oak forest. The horses and war cat crossed a few streams, Lionel's Tikihflee slurping up water and chancing upon a fish. "We'll be there soon," the Imperator noted.
Sargaso :: O’Connor! Of course! Sir Lionel O’Connor, Imperator. Got it. “Sargaso,” he says through a tense, false smile at Rilla when she addresses him. The smile relaxes as Rilla focuses on saving civilians. Sarge knows about Kahran, but not Gigi. He needs to brush up on his history and find out who this ‘Gigi’ is, presumably another monster on the scale of Kahran or Xicotl. “We could evacuate the city with a more believable lie-- Or, uh, I mean.” Did he just tell Imperator Lionel to lie? “What I mean, Sir, is maybe it’s best to keep the threat vague. They’d be inclined to believe you, the Imperator, Sir. Though as a man of humble origins myself, I say leaving out the Xicotl details works best. Oh, maybe say it’s zombies, like what happened in Cenril. People are scared of that now. Should work.” He shrugs nonchalantly and adds. “Thralls are like zombies. Not really a lie.” He grins at himself, impressed with his own save. Smooth.
Rilla shrugged, overall unconcerned with the possibility of a zombie uprising. That was starting to just be another week, and what was the worst that happened, she died? Living turned out worse for her the first time around. “Damn necromancers.” She muttered, brushing a stray curl behind her ear and pushing her braid over her shoulder, letting it fall down her back, she puts on a smile in response to Sargaso’s and repeats his name. “Sargaso, thank you.” Rilla said softly back and let herself fall into the calm rhythm with her horse who b-lined for the water in a stream and Rilla paused to let him drink, galloping to catch back up with the pair just in time to catch the ending of Sargaso’s suggestion. “Why not just yell fire in the middle of the square and hope everyone scrambles?” Rilla said sarcastically as her horse slowed and she settled back once more in line with the men. “I liked your first plan better, Sargaso.”
Strauss
Lionel chuckled dryly. "A lie is handy," he said, knowingly reducing Sargaso's assumed need to revere him in so doing. "Odds are, they've never seen me. 50/50, they've ever heard of me. To be honest, I like these kinds of places. You get to relax, you know? Plus, the food's usually sublime." He sighed wistfully. "Best damn meatloaf of my life. Tiny hovel in the middle of nowhere. I hope they've got meatloaf in Strauss." The Tikihflee meowed in agreement as the path through the trees narrowed before broadening again. Strauss was within viewing range now, and what a miniature place it was -- 12, maybe 13 simple brick buildings surrounding a stone center area with a few wells and assorted shopping stalls. Townsfolk were out at the stalls already; someone was selling fresh fruits and produce, another was offering choice fish and crabs; a third person had a variety of trade goods, likely from Chartsend by the looks of them. Men and women argued over better prices. A lanky, shirtless, fellow danced poorly near one of the wells while a pretty lass who looked almost exactly like Sargaso's type, whatever that actually was, giggled and otherwise ignored the bad dancer. Birds flew overhead. It seemed serene. "We'll go with zombies, yeah," Lionel absentmindedly concluded as they drew closer.
Sargaso hates meatloaf. The Imperator is an oddball, indeed, but perhaps that is the secret to his success. Think outside the box, ride the house cat, eat the meat in a loaf. The quaint town charms the man accustomed to slums and dark gutter puddles of mysteriously origin. He takes in the sights and settles on one in particular. “I’ll tap into the groundwater,” he says as he dismounts. He ties up his horse then strolls over towards the well with the dancing fool and the hot babe (which is, by the way, his type: hot babe). “Excuse me sir, ma’am, I’m here on official business.” Maybe he should have worn a Warrior’s Guild uniform? Hot babes love men in uniform. “Warrior’s Guild business, ma’am.” This gets the reaction he hopes for, startled alarm and a conversation to soothe her anxieties. “Is everything alright?” “It will be now, ma’am.” Cue heroic grin, eye contact for 1 second, then focus on the work at hand. That’s called the sexy triplet. He raises the bucket, lifts a hand over it, whispers a low prayer to Selene, then lowers the bucket into the well slowly. As the bucket descends, a column of water engorges the bucket’s rope and connects to Sarge’s hand. He waits for the natural flow of water to bring him the information he seeks. “What are you doing?” the woman asks. “Reconnaissance. Keeping you safe.”
Rilla laughed to herself at Lionel’s comment about food, flashing him a toothy grin and lofted brows - probably making a vampire joke in her own head, but Sargaso might not have figured her out yet. Once they were upon the city Rilla sat upright properly, crystalline gaze flashing across the square to get her bearings in the strange place. The shoes on her horse click-clacked in ways that Rilla couldn’t quite live with, so she too dismounted but stayed close to the animal with her arms crossed over her chest, just watching Sargaso for a moment, her lips curled with mild-disdain as she watched him clearly putting the moves on a lady. Don’t get it twisted, Rilla doesn’t want the attention for herself, but patience was not one of her virtues. Looking back to Lionel, she flashed a crooked grin. “I’m betting I’m a worse wingman than you are.” Rilla laughed under her breath. “I’ll take this one, if you can break the next one up faster than me I’ll make you a meatloaf of your own.” Rilla didn’t wait for a reply before striding confidently up to Sargaso, eyeing the Hot Babe head to toe before she spoke, syrupy sweet compared to the jabs she was taking earlier as she rested one hand on his arm. “Sarg, do you think we could talk privately, official business and all that.” She hinted, staring the other woman down with a tense smile.
Wingman? What? "Huh? Um, sure. That sounds great!" Rilla was already gone. What was Sargaso doing? Was he seriously flirting with one of the villagers? Already?! Was Rilla off to separate him? Oh, he got it now. Very good. You can lead a Sarge to water, but you have to lead him back fast or someone ends up pregnant. "Fancy seeing guests," an old man mumbled from behind Lionel. Lionel swung around too sharply, prompting a bit of fear in the old man. "Sorry, I twirl," the Catalian quasi-explained. "Yeah, we're actually here to warn you fine folks of an impending zombie invasion. I'm Lionel O'Connor, Imperator of the Warrior's Guild." The old man shrugged. "I think I've heard of you. Ain'tcha the one who killed a giant frog?" Lionel had no idea what the man was referencing and couldn't remember ever killing any frogs but nodded anyway. "That's me. Those two over there," he waved toward Rilla and Sargaso, "they're also Guild. These zombies, they're nasty sorts. They're liable to pop out of the ground. We want to escort you and your fellows out of the town for a bit while we fend them off." The old man shrugged all over again. "Ordinary times, I'd call your bluff. Say you're bandits and we aren't so dumb as all this. But times are strange." Lionel lofted a brow. Maybe these people already knew the thralls were imminent somehow? If so, how? Meanwhile, Sargaso's experiment with the ground would yield startling results: the thralls were only a few meters down, barely moving; what was left of their tattered arms was pressed up against the dirt, ready to pounce. It seemed rather early in the day for them to be so prepared. "I'll get the others," the old man told Lionel, thereafter shouting at the top of his lungs for everyone to come out of their houses and gather. Slowly but surely, the villagers started to do just that. "Ain't got no more bell," the old man said. "Time was, I'd ring the bell. But now the bell's gone and broke, you see."
Sargaso stiffens as Rilla comes up to him with teeth in her tone and daggers in her eyes. The hot babe interprets Rilla’s deathly sweet arrival (and Sargaso’s discomfort) as a lover’s spat. Assuming Rilla is Sargaso’s jealous lover, the hot babe sees herself out. “I was just on my way. Bye bye, now!” She makes it a point to smile passively to Rilla, like a puppy exposing its belly and throat to express its submission to authority, in this case to Sargaso’s presumed girlfriend/wife. Sargaso shakes his head in disbelief at Rilla, but bites his tongue. Lionel probably would have let him flirt. Not all hot babes are down, a lesson Sarge has learned time and time again. Saying nothing, he focuses on his divination. Gray eyes suddenly peel wide open and he hisses quickly to Rilla. “They’re right under us, they’re going to attack any second now! We need to get everyone out!” He releases the rope and quickly crosses the distance towards Lionel, gesturing wildly and inarticulately to emphasize the time has come, right now, they’re here, move!
Rilla kept half an ear on Lionel - not so much because she wanted to but because even two and a half years after being sired the noise was still near-overwhelming - but the rest of her was busy intimidating small town girls and generally wreaking havoc on Sargaso’s day. Her smile softened, however, when he shook his head, more mischief than ill-intentions. “I made a bet with Lionel.” She explained, wagging her eyebrows at him and stepping backwards until - Rilla froze for a beat at Sargaso’s words and then nodded, looking to the gathering crowd, she broke into a jog towards their leader, but a jog for a vampire was a very different thing than for a human being and in a flash she was in front of him, almost skidding in the dirt. Blue eyes moved anxiously between the townspeople and Lionel. “We need to get them out right now. If they can’t fight, they can’t stay.” Rilla hissed, eyeing the growing crowd.
“What’s the hurry?” It was the husky voice of a woman with a cigar in one hand and a glass of liquor in the other. She stood unassumingly alongside the rest of the village crowd now gathered at the central square. Lionel thought it odd that he saw no children among them. Perhaps their parents had told them to remain inside until the threat which prompted the old man’s scream was identified? None of the other villagers seemed troubled, either. A couple dozen people in all, if that, and not one of them — save for the old man — seemed the least bit fazed… but all had answered the call nevertheless. Lionel fixed Rilla with a quick and decisive worrisome glance to let her know, in case she failed to see it here herself, that something was not quite right. “Strauss is under imminent danger of being destroyed,” he declared. No one so much as batted a lash. “We’re from the Warrior’s Guild. We’re here to prevent that from happening.” Nothing. “Undead fiends lay just beneath the surface, ready to strike! We need you to gather just outside town — I give my word this will be over and done with soon.” The old man cleared his throat, shivering from the awkwardness of it. “Master Frog-Slayer, ser, they don’t much seem to care, and I cannot claim as to why.” The woman with the cigar chuckled after downing what was left in her glass and rolling the emptied vessel down onto the dirt. “You seem to be under the impression we care,” she said crisply as the fullness of her eyes became an icy blue. The eyes of every villager beside her did the same, and then the skin of their arms and legs and faces sloughed off in heaps not unlike molting snakes.
The old man’s eyes were still the way they’d been before, but they went justifiably wide and he immediately puked. Sadly for Sarge, the bonnie lass from before was now a bone-in skinless slump of flesh and breasts, ill-suited for his preferred brand of seasoning. At least the dancing fool was spared — he raced up to Sargaso and collapsed to his knees, pleading, “please save me, I wouldn’t inhale any so they went and stole my shirt, they did, and told me to wait for the ground to quake.” Predictably enough, the ground then quaked, and thralls emerged, clawing their way up and kicking and leaping onto the surface; further predictably, they paid no heed to the mob of men and women who had apparently inhaled something and become their allies. Rather, the thralls’ bright blue eyes shone upon the old man, and the shirtless lad, and the three representatives from Vigilanti Semper. “Well,” Lionel commended as he moved to draw his sword, “I’ll give you this much. You managed to hang onto that cigar even when your fingers flayed. That’s talent.” The hideously deformed woman smirked, took another hit from her tobacco, and then pounced — alongside the rest of her kin as well as the thralls — with murderous intent. While time was of the essence here and there were at least two innocent lives to be saved among the population of Strauss, anyone with a strong enough sense of smell might detect wafts of something notably pungent, sickly sweet, drifting out of the tallest building, which was where the bulk of these people had emerged.
Sargaso jumps back from the un-bonnie lass like a cat who just saw a cucumber. The paladin puts himself between the dancer formerly-known-as-a-fool and the thrall. “Make a run for it!” Before the man flees, he suggests inhalation is a vector for possession. Taking no chances, Selene’s main squeeze lifts his tunic up over his nose in hopes that the thin filter may be enough. He draws his dagger at the un-bonnie thrall lunges at him, and parries her hands away with the close-combat deftness of a sailor accustomed to defending a ship from pirates. He kicks her into the well just as the ground quakes and fractures. He’s in the wrong place. He yanks up the bucket of water as quickly as he can and sprints away from the well, bucket of water tucked like a baby under his arm (why?). That’s when the sickly sweet smell hits him, and he glowers at the building from which the bulk of the thralls emerge the sprints in their direction. A second thrall charges at the paladin, who pivots his body sidelong to avoid the tackle. As the thrall passes in front of him, he grabs the creature’s neck and, using the thrall’s own charging speed, shoves the undead’s against a third thrall, knocking them both on the ground. Back to the bucket. With just 10 feet between himself and the glut of zombies emerging from the main building, the paladin whispers a quick prayer then throws the water towards the building. The two gallons of water grows instantaneously into a tsunami 20 feet wide by 12 feet tall. It shoves the undead back against the brick building to crack a few skulls like eggs on the side of a skillet. Most of the thralls survive, albeit waterlogged, injured, and bowled over. More importantly, the cause of the sickly sweet smell inside the building is water-logged, and hopefully that’ll help slow the spread of whatever this is. Behind Sarge, the thralls in the village continue to advance, pounce, bite, scratch. His flank is exposed.
Rilla could not catch a break with these zombies. Everywhere she went and everything she did lately was zombie, zombie, zombie. Lionel’s worried look was met with one of her own, a brow raised at the awkward calm. She shifted her weight, one hand rested on the hilt of her claymore, fingertips adjusting over and over, tapping anxiously. Rilla stiffened, bristling at the woman’s tone, she quickly realized why. Bright blue eyes widened in surprise, but her jaw set as she surveyed the scene. Had these people given themselves over voluntarily? Either way it didn’t matter, they had to die. She drew a deep breath, in through your nose out through your mouth as they always tell you do and drew her blade. The sickly sweetness wrinkled her nose, the moving ground setting her momentarily off-balance under the young vampire took a wider stance. “Cover your mouth and nose.” Rilla called to Lionel, “some kinda gas.” Not her first rodeo there, although the last time it had just knocked her out not turned her into an undead minion. No longer breathing - thank goodnes she was already dead - she pounced forward toward the oncoming onslaught, the steel of her blade between her and her assailants for the time though it certainly wouldn’t remain that way. Initially she slashed at them, up on her toes as she danced between the zombies who tried to grab at her clothes. Running her blade clean through what used to be a man, she pulled back her blade, shoulder-checking him off of it as she used the hilt to push back one charging her from behind. With one enemy down a few vital organs and no longer coming, she whirled around, only aware of Sargaso’s feat by the sound of it as she produced a throwing knife which was promptly thrown directly into an oncoming thrall’s head with a hollow thud. The middle of a fight wasn’t the best place for Rilla, but the townspeople managed to keep her in the midst of it as she slashed at the monsters, periodically jumping out of biting range as she edged towards the buildings and took a running start, scaling a wall up onto a roof, kicking at the thralls that tried to follow her up.
Lionel had been gifted nifty new powers at the Demon Archipelago, and there was no way he was going to deny himself the pleasure of cheesy wordplay as he tapped into them. "Hold that thought," he told the cigar lady, waving his glowing-green sword in a horizontal arc with kendo-like exactitude. The woman immediately froze, as did numerous other former townsfolk and a multitude of thralls. With the hilt of his blade loosely held in his left grip, Lionel spun around widely, a full 360-degree type of twirl, further cementing to the old man that he enjoyed twirling not just for twirling's sake but even to save the world. He followed it with repeat twirls, his sword slashing through guts and slicing up gore each time, though he did manage to catch that cigar once the woman was a rumpled pile of bubbly fats and broken bones. Lionel's sword seared whatever it touched, after all, but it wasn't at all like Hellfire; this was the searing of a prismatic essence locked within the steel, a magical thing that made the weapon as weightless as a feather and as deadly as they came. Tossing the cigar down the well, he blinked between thrall-dodging when a flame flew up to the drawing rope from deep beneath the earth, the infernal scream and suffering of the bonnie lass Sargaso had sentenced echoing up the stone chamber louder than a crack of thunder. "Damn," Lionel said. "She's very dead." With his mouth and nose covered as per Rilla's rightful order, he turtled his way through the crowd of would-be killers, catching the vampire's wall-scaling antics out of the corner of his eye. By now, the old man and the shirtless fool were outside the hamlet, as safe as safety could presently be claimed. Sargaso's tsunami almost toppled the building. The stench puffed up visually in a thick pinkish smoke that billowed out from upstairs before fading, succumbing to the open air and failing to seduce further sentients. Whatever it was, it was gone now. But the scent of it, and the odd, sparkling nature of its physicality, were singularly memorable. If any of them came upon it again, they would know it for what it truly was. Lionel valiantly defended Sarge's exposed rear, crushing any thrall or transformed person who came too close. It was not long before the efforts of the three of them were met with success; it was down to the stragglers now. Sensing it was safe to speak, Lionel cleared his throat and shook his head. "Rilla -- the future Rilla -- only knew this place had gone up in flames, its population slaughtered. Whatever we just stepped into, this was already some kind of corpse party."
Sargaso , with his flank watched over by his eager guidlmates, mopped up the soggy thralls with the scrappy deftness of a sailor. A stabbed eye, a stomped throat, a slashed gut, a Rugby tackle, an uppercut, an elbow to the nose. Of his physical skills, agility stands out at the real talent. His awareness of where his body is at all times helps him maneuver through the throngs of undead. When he seeks out Rilla or Lionel in the crowd, their body count surpasses his by a lot. Lionel’s time-freezing, thrall-filleting feat makes it clear to Sargaso why he is the imperator despite his eccentricities. He nods at Lionel when he covers his flank. “I think I read this in a book once,” he says as he puts an undead in a chokehold and slits its throat. “It was one of fiction novels about chronomancy, pure fantasy.” As opposed to whatever the heck is happening here. “In the novel, the heroes were time jumping so much that time--” He dodges a thrall that jumps off the general’s store awning. Stabs it through the back into the ground. “That time, like doubled back on itself. They thought they knew what was going to happen but in fact the thing only happened because they knew about it. Like time looped on itself. LOOPER! That’s the name of the book. So yea, maybe this only happened because future Rilla told us it was going to happen, and at that moment time looped. This wouldn’t have happened if we didn’t come. That’s how it worked in Looper anyway.”
Rilla was a little busy to notice the feats that her fellow warriors were pulling off, fighting back the thralls that chased her up a building and drawing her bow and arrow. Could a thrall presumably get up there? Sure, but it was a lot safer there than on the ground. From up this high Rilla parsed out her allies, found them together and focused on them. While Lionel and Sargaso certainly had each other’s back, so did the archer atop a building who aimed arrows carefully into heads, throats, and kneecaps if it looked like one of the boys might need an easy kill rather than having to twirl around each other. Rilla stayed low, trying to escape the gas just in case she forgot and decided to breathe (a pesky habit to kick as it was quite engrained), stragglers that were left behind still attempting to follow her up the wall. Periodically she had to put one down with a well-timed arrow shot straight down the wall she’d scaled. “At least we changed history, instead of burning it -” she paused, nocking and subsequently releasing an arrow into a pesky thrall who dared to get up, missing limbs and all - “… flooded? If we were warned it would burn, it certainly didn’t.” Rilla called to them, replacing her bow and arrow on her back, sword in hand as she hopped down and promptly decapitated the last of the thralls still trying to figure out how to climb walls like a vampire who knows parkour. Too specific? Oh well. “Plus, wasn’t there only one survivor that we knew about? This time we saved two.” Rilla pushed her hair off her forehead as she approached her allies once more, not yet satisfied that the threat was over.
Lionel tapped his sword against the ground to get the thicker strands of blood and guts off as he attempted to process whatever it was that Sargaso had just said. Time doubled back on itself? They thought they knew but it only happened because they knew? Wait. Lionel knew what this was called. It was in Esche's weird scrolls. Just a theory, but damned peculiar. Predestination paradox? No, that couldn't have been it. "Pineapple station pair of ducks," Lionel breathed the words that frightened him so. The fool from earlier walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. "If it's not too much trouble, have you seen my shirt?" All around them was a scene of pure carnage. Xicotl had conquered the minds of the masses here and the masses were no doubt mere hours from turning everything to ashes. Between all the horrors in sight, there was no way Lionel was going to be able to find some guy's -- "Is that yours?" He gestured to a lovely, flowing, red-and-gold robe. "No, but it's better 'n what I had before," the fool answered, garbing himself and then finally allowing himself to grieve. Big, ugly sobs, soon joined by the old man who did the same. "Good work," Lionel said to Rilla and Sarge. "Two lives saved as opposed to just the one. It might not sound like much to some, but the minute we lose faith in the fact that every life saved is a victory, that's when we lose our own humanity. At that point," Catal's Last Prince spoke grimly, "we ourselves become the pineapple station pair of ducks."
Sargaso tensed when Lionel uttered the words those bizarre words the paladin assumes are a spell. But nothing happens. Nothing he can see anyway. Not all spells cause visible effects. As far as Sarge knows, the Imperator cast a spell. When the former-fool breaks down and grieves, Sarge is moved. Living in Cenril’s slum has exposedCenril to misery, and far from hardening him to the suffering of others, it’s only made him more empathetic (in a normal, non-magical, human way, a qualification necessary in these magical lands). He kneels beside the grieving man and rests a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. He says nothing, is simply there as Lionel once again utters that same spell. Maybe it failed the first time? The paladin waits for the sobbing to settle into sniffles, then says, “Do you have family or friends anywhere, man? I’ll get you wherever you need to go, man. Just say the word, brother.”
Rilla at one time might have been capable of the easy kindness that both Lionel and Sargaso put on so easily. Her jaw remained clenched even as she approached her allies, her sword finally sheathed at her side although her eyes still surveyed wildly at the slightest sound (and sounds there certainly were). She hung back arms crossed over her chest, still hardly breathing out of an abundance of caution. Would anyone even notice if Lionel went mad? “The two lives won’t mean much if they die a couple months from now. We have to figure out how they got to the townspeople ahead of us.” Rilla mused darkly, toeing the ground. “Hey Sarge, the tidal wave was you, right?” She gave him an upward nod of approval. “Nice move at exactly the right time. Next time give me a heads up and I’ll kneecap the runners. The fewer thralls around the better, right?” Rilla flashed a crooked grin, Lionel already knew he was cool, he could find someone else to pump up his ego.
"Yes, we do," Lionel confirmed Rilla's words about the mystery still at hand. "Which leads me to your next assignment. Let's get those two survivors back to Semper with us and I'll chat up Jessie and Quintessa about our newfound discovery; up until now, we had no evidence that Xicotl can screw with people and make them his to command without totally zombifying them a la thralls. Now we've seen it firsthand. Those folks were living, breathing, even failing to be witty. But they were his." Lionel sheathed his sword and winced at the darkening sky. It was going to rain again, wasn't it? "Once you're rested, I'd like the two of you to have a conversation with the survivors. Find out everything you can about what happened here. What was that mist we saw -- the inhalant? How'd it get here? Where can we find more? Clues, clues, clues. Tsunamis and bank shots are great but we won't stand a chance unless we piece together this puzzle." Hopping on his Tikihflee, he invited the old man to do the same. One of his companions would have to foot the bill with the fool who now looked half-dressed to become a reigning hamburger monarch.
Sargaso :: Rilla’s compliment elicits a small, crooked grin. “Thanks. It was really Selene. I just asked her to help out.” He nods at Lionel’s orders and invites the fool to travel with him. “Semper first, debrief, then we’ll get you on your way when it’s all done, my man.” The fool’s still crying, still gripped in the throes of grief, but he complies. Sarge helps him up onto the horse. If it rains, that’s good. Sarge can speed up the soaking mount and get back to Semper faster, get this guy a hot meal and a bed, you know? Poor guy. “See you at Semper, Sir. Rilla.” He nods at them both, then leaves.
Rilla nodded along with Lionel, nervously scanning still, protective over her people even if her people weren’t her people and might not even have liked her - that’s what happens when you act like a tool 70% of the time. At least Sargaso seemed inclined to forgive her third-wheeling (though possibly in part due to his object of affection’s eventual fate), she rolled her eyes at his answer all the same. “Just take the compliment.” Rilla suggested and mounter her horse as well. “I’ll see you both back there, I want to check the forests first for survivors or villagers who were out hunting, maybe?” A hopeful thought, and Rilla scanned the decimated village once more. “Maybe go through that building, see where that stuff was coming from before it can get cleaned up.” Rilla had no intention of going back with them, but she did click her tongue at her mount to begin her trot up to the tower in silence.