Private Tales a Lesser Lord's Ransom

[Oliver]

“ He should’ve been back by now. “

Syr Leinas had broken the silence, standing at the edge of the darkening copse with his shoulder against the oaken giant that overlooked the broad dirt road. They’d settled at a bend where visibility to both directions was no more than fifty paces, the way bordered by a great thicket on one side and a fenced pasture on the other. A classic spot for an ambush — advantageous, if hideously predictable.

Not lifting his look from the dying embers at his feet, Oliver drew a breath and adjusted on his spot on the ground, plate armour pronouncing the slightest shift. He’d long since submitted to taking a seat, positively lounging. To be so on edge—

“ Wrong. He’ll be back exactly when he means to — “ He responded belatedly, head keeling to allow him a cursory glance at the sky. It had turned to evening, the great bright dot level with the horizon and sprouting fire across the firmament, its shape ever-sinking. Soon, it’d be dark. It always crept up this time of year.

Like a band of thieves. Just to himself, he smiled a little. His stare landed on his companion in turn, with some mischief.

“ — If I was him, I’d take your worry as doubt over my competence. Hardly a— “

“ Yeah, yeah. “ Syr Leinas interjected in a quick turn upon his heel, speaking and marching over a little louder than he meant to. This was evident in the way he fell silent and halted therein, frustration in the huff and folding of arms as he stood, staring at passing air. Playing oblivious and nonchalant for it, Oliver watched him.

“ Pass me the wineskin. “

The man’s request was granted in a quick swing of the arm. And a grin.

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Sequestered from the dying light, the noble that had so extorted various peoples from precious coin and valuables sat within their high rising carriage. His hand upon face, eyes closed, oblivious to the impending trap. He had grown weary of entertaining himself mightily by the bags of coins that they had gathered from no less than three villages from maladies of his own creation. The withering ivy that snared houses and resisted all attempts to remove it, save his own command word to the living vine that he had unleashed from enchanted wand. The toxic flower that made those who breathed the pollen weak, and grow even more fervently for fire's touch, only to be removed by the same wand that had birthed the ivy. And finally, a simple illusionary pack of wolves that he had driven off with a ring that was hidden beneath velvet glove, a ring of silver with a multifaceted purple jewel that could wrought such depictions of imminent trouble.

All tricks he had performed to boost his own coffers, soon to be spent on the luxuries of fine dining, gambling, and perhaps the odd alluring high born woman who might indulge his penchants for terrible jokes and poorly won boasts.

Such boasts would not include these exploits, not unless he was rather deep into his cups and sat around a game of cards with fellow exploiters of the common toiling classes and the leaders that failed to soothe the maladies that the noble had created so opportunistically. Within his own imagination, he was better than those who grafted to earn their coin, for his method required a wit and a will of magic to perform. Better to liberate the people of their coin that would be spent on whatever the lower classed people wittered their money on, to feed high society. Or his reputation and aspirations at the gambling table.

Another gamble was being made upon that noble's ill gotten gains, named one Ottoman Braka, a human who wore the finest velvets and silks in dandy colours of pink and purple. Ill suited to travel, yet provided the impression of being far more important than simply another fop born into high society. He snoozed as his treasures were being wagered by the companions of the Order of Anathaeum. The bird knight Montbank, so used to applying his vision to perceive the troubles of his comrades, saw the carriage slowly lumber to the destined point without averting themselves. Montbank spied a heavy cloak of green and gold around the driver, and saw from the skies above that revealed him not to the driver who's cowled head did not rise to peer upwards that there was a polearm of some description wrapped in an ornate case.

Possibly proficient with the thing. No matter. We go ahead with it. From the markings this is definitely the right vehicle. Time to rejoin.

Montbank beat his wings and made good time his comrades, swooping down silently between the in time to see a wineskin being passed between the two. His wings arced with a beauty and grace, his armour rippling with flexibility not seen in most breastplate. Various trinkets and potions hung from his person, an amber glass orb with cloudy grey liquid that sloshed around with perceptible unnatural slowness for his movements, a collection of what seemed like shaved bark with sparkling silver ties around them, a trapping device of rope and hooks, and what was quickly becoming a standard carry, an eel's head.

“Reporting. The noble is within a carriage, as predicted. Two horses are driven, one driver, possibly skilled with spear. We can do this. I intend to shock and awe the horses into cowering. They approach in less than five, so the game's soon afoot. Are you all prepared to rush and get the gains this noble has so leeched? I intend to provide smoke screen, scare the horses, and then support if there's resistance. Sound agreeable?”

Montbank was clearly not taking chances with leadership here. There was a plan to be enacted, and his own part to play was to be sudden and striking. It wasn't that he did not have faith in his comrades in this act of righteous brigandry, it was more he was assured in his own power to make this action swift. Perish the thought of that spear wielding driver, or indeed, that noble, performing actions to bring them low.

Not when there was so much coin to be delivered for the Order. Rulgak must, Montbank thought, be kept in good spirits and in good supplies. Especially, he thought, seeing as he still felt he owed her for the resplendent armour, and doubly so for the potential medal he might receive should the quarterly income be bolder for his efforts to purloin a ill gotten noble's coffer.

Oliver

 

[Oliver]

Reporting.

The both of them perked to attention with some startlement, the soft, nigh inaudible landing having gone unperceived betwixt the long woodland shadows. Masking his sour expression, Syr Leinas took a sip from the skin as the newly returned spoke. Inspectorial look adrift betwixt the both of them, Oliver picked up his helm and rose from the ground, the sallet promptly placed upon his head.

“ Completely. I’m glad to hear you’ve already fabricated a plan. Spares me the scramble. “ Flashing his best smile in appreciation, he took towards the pair of horses they’d arrived on that’d remained calmly standing in the shelter of the trees. Replacing the cork on the wineskin, Syr Leinas remained with an disconcerted air about him.

“ Just one armed man — and doubling as driver no less. “ His tone was puzzled, expression dark with consideration that saw but meager variation of purpose and deemed none of them encouraging. “ Neither of you think it curious? Because I do. “

“ I think it an unfair fight, truth be told. And yet — “ Oliver spoke over his shoulder, giving the gear on his grey dapple a once-over before his foot was already on the stirrup. “ — I hardly feel sorry for them. “

There was an amount of disappointment in the way Syr Leinas regarded the both of them, until giving up the feeble ghost on resistance and reason. His arm slinged a touch aggressively as he picked up the already drawn crossbow, inspecting the mechanism on his way to his own horse. While he mounted, Oliver merely shook his head in feigned lamentation and adjusted on his saddle.

“ I’ll see about disarming that lone driver, first thing. “ He thought out loud, urging the horse to a gait that yet lingered, seeking proper direction in a half-circle. A trusting smile came upon him, posture wholly unbothered as he flipped down his visor.

“ You've the lead, Syr Montbank. “

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The lead is mine. Makes a change from waiting. Now, which approach vector...

https://soundcloud.com/david-giffard%2Freharl-metal-chronicles-a-lesser-lords-ransom

Montbank raised his head and snapped his beak a few times in small vibrations which could be read to mean that he was thinking, judging the wind and considering how to master it. The wind ebbed to the north, in the direction the carriage was trundling down, blissfully unaware of their intent to halt it's advance and deprive it of it's cargo.

“Good. Be ready. I strike in exactly three minutes. Shock and awe, and then you move in from the flanks. Understood? Right,” Montbank said, not waiting for affirmation of the understood. It was implied that his comrades would be up to the task by his high estimations of anyone within their order.

Two fast beats of the wing and Montbank was within the air again, his light armour allowing him to enter the air currents as swiftly as he had landed. He circled wide to gain altitude so that he was beyond the eyesight of the guard who would hear or perceive his approach. Silently did the owl knight fly, his characteristically muted movements a hallmark of his career, either in rescuing his comrades, providing fire support, or in rare circumstance like this, the opening volley.

He thought on the hunts he had performed before he had been cursed for his ventures into the wood to pursue animals that did not deserve the arrow through the heart as he rode upon steed. He had not ventured to ride another animal again, much less hunt another one for sport. It was all necessity. The eel's head he had upon his belt that was tight wrapped so not to fall loose or fall flush from his body had been preyed upon from the waters by the knight himself. He would have had to waited for the squires to pry such a thing from the streams and pools that ran, and besides, he wanted it fresh for the time sensitive mission. The fresher the eel, the more potent the affect he knew. Considering this fact as he made wide berth of the carriage and spied his comrades move into position with his advanced and precise vision, he wondered if it would be possible to capture such a thing live so to really boost the magic.

No, he thought. A container of water would have quite the heft and hamper his movements. Unless he was completely dedicated towards bombardment, it was quite the foolish notion. He shook his head at the consideration and angled his wings to dive upon the carriage, his approach from behind.

The rider was jostled by the road's uneven surface, but was soon to be thrown into dissarray by the movement of the horses in reaction to what was to come.

Swooping in, the shining white flying knight did tear at their belt for the appropriate ingredient as speed increased and the winds began to fight him for his perfect motion. He had practiced many times to perform this exact maneuverer, but each time was an effort in concentration. This was not the hundred crowd which could afford him imprecision, but rather two horses that had to be blinded and shocked into panic. The rider could not be afforded to have control of the carriage, otherwise it would be a chase, a chase Montbank knew he could keep up with, but his comrades would most likely not be able to reach the veering carriage, let alone catch up to it to board. That would be most inopportune he thought.

Wings spread, components within hand, the eel head was tossed up to the beak and snapped up into the gullet of the owl knight. A thought, and electricity did course with sharp tendrils from his maw, the eel was consumed in one gulp, feeding the knight the power he needed to shock and awe.

Swooping across the carriage, he pointed his mouth downwards and snapped three times, striking lightning bolts that viciously coursed down beside the horses themselves. Great care was made not to strike the beasts themselves, merely to blind them with the proximity of the spell effect. They went wild and halted, shaking their heads as the lightning scorched the earth, the riding standing up in suprise, his hand reaching for the box that contained his weapon.

No time to consider that. Now, the awe.

Montbank swooped low, raised his tailfeather and spiralled in the air. The potion which contained the silver liquid that sloshed in sluggish measure was ripped from the belt cleanly and with a practiced motion that made Montbank the efficient agent of the skies, and lobbed it at the front of the carriage as the horses reared up and threatened to pull in opposite directions.

The glass smashed in front of the horses, and the driver tore open the box and scrambled away from the smokey cloud that enveloped the locomotion of the carriage.

“What in blazes is going on out there? Detri, you better have control of those animals or so help me-” were the words sprung from the lord, who was dumb to the lightning shock, thinking it merely the passing blinding light. The lord had no appreciation of how soon he might be liberated of his precious cargo.

The driver, however, held gleaming copper spear and stood with menace as he observed his horses now blinded, moving in slow motion to the floor as the cloud of smoke did envelop the front of the carriage. Movement was impossible now, for the beasts were rearing up as if they were caught and ensnared by molasses.

Montbank landed, talons greeting the floor, as his white bodied self allowed for distraction to the driver, who pointed the weapon in his general direction, the gloom of the slow cloud obscuring the way to his interloper.

“Stand and deliver,” Montbank stated as if he was offering judgement over the guilty, and kicked up dust with his outstretched wings as he drew his sword in a sharp ejection of steel from the scabbard.

 

[Oliver]

“ We’ll be ready. “ He affirmed in parting, watching as a great pair of wings took the man away again. In a tug of the reins, he also begun towards predetermined position, if unhurried. Having submit to silence that reeked of worry and judgement, Syr Leinas followed in his wake. Their pace was forced slow by the thicket, their way through a lonesome narrow path that zigzagged through the brush. It would terminate to the side of the arching road, wherein they could remain in cover until the marked moment.

Three minutes. Or was it already a mere two?

By his grim expression and statuesque posture that betrayed not a breath, Syr Leinas was keeping count. Oliver hadn’t, out of principle, having chosen intuition over keeping up with miniscule detail. He’d accept it to a man’s face, but —

You could only plan so far. I’ll see this shock and awe when it happens.

He rolled his shoulders as they settled to place, staring with both expectation and dread at the road throught the foliage. A gauntlet clicked as he closed it around the handle of his warhammer, pulling it out its loop. An exploratory swing, adjustment of grip, lower for range. Mere an arm’s length to his right, a bolt was being fitted into its socket on the crossbow.

It begun with a rumble, the tremor of wheels and hoofbeats from beyond the bend. The horse beneath him moved expectantly on its spot in little sidesteps, giving a low nicker as the carriage rolled to view. It gave another, tail swishing, as a great shape descended and struck lighting from its maw. The vehicle had ground to a abrupt halt, the aghast animals in front a collision hazard that he noted.

A shattering of glass and hark — the fabled smokescreen.

“ Kaarle. Vasen. “ He ordered outright, jerk of his helm indicating left as he spurred the horse out of the brush. In a hum, Syr Leinas agreed and took the direction. Their paths diverged without delay and arched in evasion of the smoke, emerging from behind it in a gallop.

Oliver, now with a clear view, got to notice he’d ridden to the side that’d grown crowded. What welcomed him was the unaware backside of the driver and some way in front, the rather imposing sight of the leading knight himself. The hammer swung as he sped past their shared adversary, aiming blunt force for limb and shoulder to hamper the wielding of a polearm.

On the other side of the carriage, Syr Leinas immediately drew his steed to a halt upon arrival, which it managed in a couple steps delay and a grand scrape of dirt. The horse spun around as he aimed the crossbow, glaring through the window at the passenger.

“ Exit. Now. “

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The carriage door opened to see a protesting lord's face look blankly at the request, and then scrunch up in all too real indignation. His face flushed red with apoplectic rage, his hands siezing upon themselves and the silver ring smouldering purple light from the jewel from beneath his glove of his right hand. He was a mustachioed man, his eyes grey, his brow furrowed in what passed for defiance, yet was twinged by desperate fear. Defiance won out overall, but the fear marked his features all the same. More for fear of losing his ill gotten gains, his hands snatching upon themselves as if was grasping his treasures for fear of losing them to this sudden interruption of his conniving life.

“Mug me? Mug ME? You uppity cad!” The Lord proclaimed, his mustache bristling at the prospect of the raw energy that was commanded by instinct by the insult of being happened upon in such a fashion. As the carriage slowed to a stall, it lurched, and with that surge did the ring about his index finger did produce a gout of illusionary magic. Snapping wolves that seemed all too real, mixed with the occasional blast of a telekentic crushing that would make the illusions truly have some bite. The wolves were white eyed and purple in construction that snapped as if their food was under threat, all snarls and vicious rapid bites at the doorway. His right hand was a fist that produced such a defense, all while his left pawed desperately for the other wands that might aid him.

“Detri, do your job and put down this interuption! I won't abide it! I won't! I refuse!”

Meanwhile, Detri, the driver, held gleaming copper spear and was about to pivot to attend his employer, when the hammerblow greeted his shoulder and found the mark. He grunted through gritted teeth at the sudden assault, the horse rider landing the blow true. His right shoulder slumped, and he traded the spear to his left. The copper gleamed green for a moment as it attuned to the task ahead of it.

Montbank saw that the driver was turning and vaulting over the carriage seat to the roof of it, so that he might assist the Lord with his struggles. A pack of wolf heads could be seen at the mouth of the doorway. With an impulse of speed did Montbank propel himself forward in the air at the guard, sword held in piercing motion.

The guard received him well, the butt of the spear slamming on the wooden roof to angle it to deadly effect if Montbank had not changed his course. Instead an eruption of sparks as his own blade greeted the copper speartip, and through proper angling did the guard Detri avert the winged warrior. Montbank cruised past the carriage and landed at the end of it, and fluttered for a moment as he appraised the situation. Still, the guard seemed perturbed by the sudden change of focus, and was caught off balance by the forceful deflection of the blow.

The lord's hand found the wands, and he produced mutterings of, “Now you'll get a taste of what I can do, mug me, I'll end you, I'll end you rightly!” as the wand sparked into life slowly, green vines emerging from the head of the pyrite wand, thorns a plenty, spiralling towards his feet and soon to ensnare his attacker.

 

[Oliver]

The callous order was met with a denial and then— a flash of light, purple.

In a great whinny, the bay tossed its head at the image of wolves, whites of its eyes flashing as it reared in a prey animals’s desperate panic. First went the crossbow, dropped as the rider reflexively tried to secure a better grip on the rains. Hitting the ground, the weapon loosed a bolt in a great twang of the string — to where, he wouldn’t know.

As it landed back on fours, the horse launched into another maneuver, this time aiming for a grand escape, bucking. That is where it finally lost him, jumping over a ditch, a fence and then disappearing to the fast darkening landscape of abandoned fields.

He came to in the next second, tasting iron and feeling nothing but a blunt ache. He’d landed side-first and on his arm, which he was first to free in a quick yank, resulting to merely lean against his elbows as his lungs struggled for breath. Trying to refocus, he fixed his attention to the flurry of movement on top of the vehicle, wherein two exchanged slashes from blades.

Sparks.

With some urgency, he took to levering himself up, palms flat on the ground and soles scarping for purchase. A yelling reached like from a distance, words melting to one another amidst the nicker of horses and the strange, boatlike toss of the carriage. And then, green.

Having gained a little too much momentum, Oliver managed to finally wheel his horse around just in time to see the second spell being cast. It also struck him that Kaarle had managed to fall off his horse.

Helm echoing, he called out the man’s name in what wasn’t exactly a warning, horse nickering and refusing to approach anew. Clever bastard. He wouldn’t have either, horse or not, but alas—

Oliver dismounted in a great crash of plate. Hammer at the ready, he accelerated towards the carriage on foot, watching as Syr Leinas hit the ground anew, unable to evade the vines on his freshly gained footing. The man appeared to fish within his tabard for something, as his free hand went for a knife that slashed wildly at the forsaken greenery. A small clay sphere was produced and a snap of fingers saw the fuse lit.

That is when he reached him, vaulting a patch of vines to his companion’s side and snatching the bomb from the hand that could no longer throw it, ensnared. He slung it through the open carriage door, where it exploded into thick grey smoke, clay pattering. He went for the door in one great leap, entering the cloud with unthinking fury.

A gauntleted hand shot within, determinate to drag the spellcaster out by whichever part he would grip first.

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

A sack of coins spilled it's contents onto the floor as the wild bolt liberated the metal to crashing upon the carriage floor. Lordly feet, clad in gaudy purple shoes, failed to surf upon that almost liquid like surface of ill gotten gains. Yet the green vines emerged and lashed out all the same from the wand, wielded pointedly at the assailant Syr Leinas. Thorn ridden choking vines erupted from his wand in ever quicker expulsions of energy, and the device grew warmer by the expulsion of the raw undirected energies, vines that were lurching in heartbeat pulses of growth at the attackers.

The Lord observed that the bomb had become arrested and still for his efforts with the vine, before floundering upon the pool of money for proper footing.

Assuming that his assailant would hoist themselves upon that petard, scrambling to gain some distance, nuzzling the coins as he lay upon the ground as a hand went to the opposite door and limply let the door reveal the scene. His eyes saw his guard, spear pointed, broad shouldered, approaching fast.

“Ditri, for the love of money, get here!”

A rush of white, a spinning of spear as the path was delayed by the sky knight making another pass of engagement. He swooped high in the sky, and was clear to mean to do such again. Ditri pointed spear upwards, his cloak billowing, his eyes fixed upon the quarry.

And then it clattered.

The Lord known as Ottoman Braka, eyes wide and coins stuck to his flabby face, gazed at what was beside his features, looming large in his vision as the fuse spent, wild and bright.

An expulsion of smoke filled his vision, and the choking was immediate as the grenade was thrown from palm to Lordly presence, the smoke expelling from the open door as the carriage panted heavy grey.

Oliver's hand would grip a purple shoe, and dragged the Lord out, his moustache and beard all frazzled, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth trembling with half words of, “You-you-you....brig-brig-brig-” between coughs, his gloves covered with soot.

Coins trickled out of the carriage.

Dazed and confused, he awaited his fate even as Detri readied himself to provide the deliverance the brigands asked for. Sweat marred his brow.

Montbank loomed heavy in the sky, white wings spread as he glided over all, the smoke rising in small spiral, as his comrades made good with their demands.

Good, stay focused on the threat. Let my comrades work on your Lord and make good our claim.

Oliver

 

[Oliver]

A shoe — in it a foot attached to a leg. He yanked.

There was no restraint left as he put his entire weight into it, a great slide, thud and a cheerful jingle of coin accompanying one noble’s ejection from the vehicle. Through the narrow slit in his visor and billow of thick air, he just about spotted the accursed green glow, yet erupting from a stick. Without delay, he slammed his heel on it, happening upon a hand that’d meant to grab it. Ignoring a howl of agony, he drove his boot down in repeat motion, harder this time.

A crackle and splinter deadened the light, somewhere beneath a crumpled glove. Whether he’d broken the man’s hand was of no particular concern of his, plate violently aglint with the fire of a sunset about to wink out as he straightened. For proper send off into whatever Hell enchanted objects belonged, he gave the wand a kick. As per his wishes it left his vicinity, disappearing somewhere in the dust.

Good riddance. Now — was that at all sufficient? The way his blood was yet rushing, he felt not.

“ Oliver — The driver. “

A groan announced Syr Leinas’ effort as he sought to hoist himself from the ground, a mere couple paces away. Though he succeeded, none of it was graceful, pain written on both movements and his expression that usually betrayed naught. It didn’t server Oliver’s attempt at tempering his rage.

“ I don’t know where — Montbank? “ It was a feeble call, sent to the smoke without even a look. The realization of a lingering threat had hit him without much effect, simply for there was no way to be even more on edge.

A huff of a breath echoing within his bevor, he captured the noble by the thick brocade of his garments and dragged him along the ground to the wayside. A forceful shove saw him discarded face-first into the dirt anew.

“ One more spell and you shan’t be spared. I will personally have you drawn and quartered. Then — maybe — I’ll bash your skull in. “ He promised, glaring down at the noble and adjusting his grip on the hammer in a circle of the wrist.

“ We’ll be taking your coin and horses. This is non-negotiable. “

Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The wand was released from the broken hand with a pained welp and sobbing. It shattered into five pieces, pieces that sizzled with green energy that spat out their arcane ichor, sprouting flowers where the energy did soak the soil.

A cool wind picked up, changing the direction to which the smoke rose. Montbank arced along those currents, his presence looming down from the guard Ditri who remained focused upon him. Ditri took a few steps backwards, which Montbank responded to by feigning a descent, his figure lowering into a dive and then backing up into gliding as potent threat.

“Damn it all,” Ditri muttered to himself through his consternation. His spear held aloft, pointing at the sky knight who threatened him so. A heartbeat, and the decision was made as the Lord made his bargaining.

“Please just stop hitting me, I'll stop with the spells! Just take what you want, just...” the Lord Ottoman protested as he rubbed “Just don't kill me! You've broken my hand, isn't that enough? Leave me with a horse at least so I can ride home, I can't walk that far, I'll be eaten by wolves! Ditri, stand down!”

Ditri weighted his options as he approached the cart. The sky knight circled. The others had the one who he protected.

“Leave us with one horse and my payment,” Ditri said boldly as he lowered his spear by an inch, his eyes darting to the coins that trickled out of the cart. He crouched down slowly, deliberating for a moment as his eyes flashed blue with a minor cantrip, his eyes seeing beyond that which was.

“This is not time for that Ditri! Can't you see they're serious-” the Lord barked out in an odd blend of panic and his sensibilities being used to bossing around the fellow.

Ditri's eyes narrowed upon the money and his face soured, he shook his head, his eyes fading back to their regular green.

“You're right, your Lordship. Just leave us one horse and feel free to take this loot. Otherwise this fight's back on, winged bastard or no, I will make sure to kill at least one of you before I blink out of here. I'll be damned if I am walking to my next job. And I've barely begun to fight.” Ditri said, unperturbed yet resolute in his demand. He twisted his spear, and the tip of which crackled with a mixture of cerulean energy and sparks as if it were grinding upon itself to highlight the point that he was still very much a threat.

The Lord's lip began to quiver in a mixture of rage and desperation, as he realised he was being abandoned by the one man who might be protect him.

Montbank stayed quiet, his ears picking up on the conversation. He remained in position, although he wasn't sure on how to proceed. It was to the others to decide.

Oliver

 

[Oliver]

Serious, indeed.

An argument was afoot, an exchange of words heating up betwixt men having assumed roles of master and subordinate. He watched it with some bafflement, his unimpressed frown hidden away within the expressionless metal of his helm that merely rotated according to his attention. Halfway betwixt him and the driver presently making threats, Kaarle remained in a lopsided standstill, knife unsheathed. He didn’t appear terribly keen on putting it away, but neither did he draw his sword, merely resting his free hand on the hilt.

What a gods-damn predicament. Or was it, truly? Oliver’s eyes narrowed at what seemed like magic, cast no doubt just to emphasize the claimed stalemate. A skepticism was upon him, if only out of spite as his anger outdid his reason tenfold. It urged him to just see the card, risk potential death.

But sadly, he wasn’t alone on this road. He met eyes with Kaarle, measuring the weary look that spoke nothing, but a disinclination to fight. Hardly surprising.

“ A position from which to make demands is being assumed. You’ve no such thing. “ He stated in a bettering of posture, a severe timbre to his voice as his gaze snapped back at the mercenary. “ Arrogance untold. I can forgive that, but I suggest you reconsider underestimation when it comes to a certain ‘winged bastard.’ “ His helm inclined a little, confidence in the lift of his chin as he forewent glancing at Montbank. That would've meant distrust, which he had none.

“ You’ll be lucky to land a single blow, let alone walk out of here, once you’ve tried. “ To discourage interference, he gave the noble a quick glare before turning on his heel to face the driver.

“ Two seconds. Run or come at me. “

Shoulders squared, he made to approach with long paces, gauntlet crunching as he gripped the war hammer tighter.

“ One— “

Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Ditri's thoughts ran quick, with his grip tightening upon the spear, before his eyes went to the coins once again, and a small smile ran across his features which disappeared quickly enough as he realised the pressure of time. He turned his head to Oliver once again.

“Fine. I'm taking the Lord though. Be reasonable. Unless you want to be murderers instead of robbers. He won't survive in the wilderness without an escort. It's a three day walk from here to our destination. Wolves abound here. Release him to me and be done with this. The carriage and horses are yours, for what good it'll do you.”

The Lord cradled his hand and eyes darted between the two of them.

“Yes, be reasonable!” The Lord spluttered, some confidence returning.

Montbank descended silently, sensing that negotiations required his calm. He fluttered down and lowered his weapon, but not entirely. He gaze a look to Oliver which meant only one thing.

It's your call.

 

[Oliver]

Fine.

The march slowed, coming to a belated halt as the man begun speaking. It was more of a response than he’d requested, rather plentiful on the words, but he wasn’t of the mind to interrupt. Wasn’t this exactly what they’d wanted anyway — to take all at the cost of none. Despite his posturing, a relief was upon him, restricted to the privacy within a suit of armour. It stood deathly still, watching, with weapon at the ready.

The though that this all might be just some trick blew past him, whistling doubt into his resolve. In interest of time, he didn’t entertain it beyond acknowledging the possibility. The Lord’s call was an unnecessary contribution, adding nothing but an irritating factor to the entire discussion he hadn’t been of the mind to grant in the first place.

“ Silence, please. “ He pronounced firmly, like scolding a child, a complete dismissal in his refusal to regard the noble with a look. Instead, his attention drifted to both of his companions in turn, not so much for advice as for permission. Neither seemed eager to speak, so he remained at his post, nodding universally.

Come what may.

“ I’ll be reasonable. “ A shift on the heel, dirt scraping, the dark slit of the helm watchful of the mercenary. “ Take your Lord — make sure he pays you in full for the favour and services rendered both. “ His head jerked at the noble’s direction, tone welcoming no objection.

“ As for the Lord himself —“ He reanimated into a sharp couple steps, closing the distance with the mentioned. “ On your feet. “ Settling to hover next to the man like a guard to prisoner, he enhanced the order in an upwards toss of the hand.

“ And let a reformation of ways and conduct begin immediately. Lest I hear of sustained swindling and we meet again. “

Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The Lord's brain worked in two fold measure. The first, subservience. Of standing at command, hand still cradled, a quick fire of nods and all too pleasing words, “Oh, yes, of course, yes, you have my word, I'll change my ways, yes, you won't get any trouble from me, no, no Syr,” he said, his words trailing off as his true conniving self thought of hiring an entire brigades of mercenaries to take his revenge. For if nothing else, petty was as petty does, and his schemes were being infringed upon. Within his mind he drew up hurried and erratic plans, fantasies that he might just be able to bank roll given enough persuasion and rifling through his various accounts.

After all, this was just one of his trips that had run foul of the knights. The numerous times which had gone on without a hitch had fuelled his lifestyle, and funded something of his assurances to gain revenge.

All such things were hidden, for while the Lord bet too grossly with his funds when playing cards, he knew how to maintain composure to what narrative he was trying to project. A strong hand, a weak hand, it required maintaining the message. His quivering lip was real, and served his pantomime well, for the pain shocked his system to shaking, his hand still slung by the other arm, his eyes looking between the Syrs and the guard Detri. Who himself was composed, resigned in a different way to the goings on.

While the Lord drew up plans of revenge in the future, the driver Detri knew of one in the present moment, but held it close to his chest. Detri was no gambler. He was assured of what he had avoided by the knights interrupting their passage.

“Come on, my Lord,” Detri said, gesturing to him as he placed a leather cap over the spearhead. “It's three day walk. If we move. Now. Leave these knights to their gains,” he said, deadpan.

The Lord had the phrase, 'Easy come, easy go' repeating in his head which impressed upon him a foul expression, which with a flash of eyes from Detri was transformed into the deceptive subservience he had begun with. It was a flash of authority from Detri, not of rage, but of wanting to survive this situation without exacerbating it further.

The guard Detri considered but for a flicker of a moment saying more. But was convinced to say nothing. His own Lord was a piece of work, Detri knew. But he paid. And would pay for getting him out of this.

Besides, Detri thought. He'll change his tune quickly enough.

Detri didn't knew the plans to which the Lord Ottoman devised in his scheming brain even as the two walked away. The two remained silent, and would descend into conversation once the carriage was well upon it's way. It was as if the suddenness of the event had rendered them mute, for the power dynamic had changed. Once Lord and master, now Lord and fool. Once driver and guard, now guide and survivalist. And keeper of the facts of what would truly transpire in a few days, not the hair brained schemes of hiring brigades of men to take revenge.

But all of that was to come.

The carriage now belonged to the Knights of Anathaeum.

“Any of you know how to drive horses properly? I scare them as I am,” Montbank said, appraising the gold and producing a new sack in which to spill the glittering metal into. The arrow had pierced one of the loot bags, and it wouldn't do to simply let it float around. Montbank sealed the bag and threw it back into the carriage.

“I'll follow you above, let's get this back and counted. Well done everyone. Although...” he began, and looked to Oliver.

“Never mind it,” Montbank said and shook his head. He extended his wings and soared upwards into the cloud space. He watched the two and decided not to listen to their conversation.

He had enough of that brand of nobility of one day. Montbank wouldn't have heard the two speak, for they would only speak some hours from now, with full assurance that the birdman couldn't hear them.

The coins lurked for new hands to count it.

Oliver

 

[Oliver]

All lies. And how uncreative, too.

He watched as the babbling noble scurried off to join his hireling, spouting things of which none he hadn’t heard before. Despite the irritation coiling within him like so many serpents, begging to lash out, the metal visage remained impassive. He listened to his own breath echo within the helm as the pair turned their backs and distanced, the lot of him bereft of thought.

It had felt right in the moment, to have done as he had, but now — A strange emptiness befell him. No relief, no victory, no nothing. He didn’t like how it hollowed out his chest, similarly to how being stranded in one’s lonesome initially left one with naught, but a sinking sensation. Before the denial and despair settled in, that was.

This had potential for neither, but it was hideously unpleasant nevertheless. The visor finally went up as Montbank spoke, taking charge anew. He got to discover their desired trajectories hereon diverged some.

“ I can drive, sure — But I hadn’t in mind to take the carriage. “ Oliver admitted outright, idly shifting on his heel and slipping the hammer back into its loop. As their eyes met, in that trailing off and subsequent retraction, he couldn’t entirely restrain the weariness from his expression.

What was that? Do share your thoughts.

Unwilling to press for it out loud, he resulted to just frowning, challenge in his stare as the man took to the sky. The fight melted away from him just as fast, replaced by the dull duality of annoyance and disappointment. In a deep breath, he watched Kaarle turn towards the fenced-off field, having spied his runaway horse in the distance.

“ It wasn’t in the plan — “ Oliver tossed a hand, landing it on his hip. “ — Don’t you think we should just leave it? Carriages are cumbersome. “

“ They are. “ Kaarle agreed, slowing his step as he made to vault the fence and into the darkness. It was neither swift nor elegant. “ But taking it seemed like Montbank’s preference. “

“ Yes — of a sudden. What with him being so fond of voicing such things. “

“ You’re prickly — whatever for. “

“ He has no place criticizing wherein he did not intervene. A chance was to speak and he employed it not, as such— “

“ Forever hold thy peace. And isn’t that exactly what he did. “

“ No. “

“ You assume what he meant to say. “

“ I know exactly what he meant to say. “ It went unheard, muttered in a way that failed to reach his companion’s turned back. Huffing, he animated into a march, plate clicking a furious rhythm all the way to where his grey dapple meandered betwixt the trees. The reins were seized in short order.

***​

By the time his company returned, Oliver had just about checked the carriage horses’ harnesses and circled the vehicle in search of debilitating damages. Nothing had been amiss, as far as his inexpert eye could see. The bay halted in a soft clop of hooves, Kaarle’s tired look landing upon him.

“ So we’re taking it. “

“ Yes. I am no man to defy Syr Montbank’s design — all too reasonable. There’ll be a use for it, be it money or spare parts. “ Oliver responded, neutrally enough despite the edge of defeat in his expression. A worry came upon it as he looked up at his friend.

“ Were you injured? I didn’t see the fall, but — “

“ No. Apart from dizziness and my arm aching something awful— “ Syr Leinas grabbed at it, moving the gloved fingers just to make sure they yet functioned. “ I’m quite alright. And fit to ride home, at least. “

“ All that is required. Let us try and make this journey quick. “ In a nod and a half-hearted smile, he climbed to the driver’s seat. His own horse was summarily tied to be lead behind Kaarle’s, attached to the saddle by the reins.

The carriage rocked to motion in a call and a snap.

Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The journey had been an uneventful one, the carriage served well due to being undamaged by the change in ownership. The horses obeyed. The wheels carried true. And so the group returned to the Monastery.

Meanwhile, the noble massaged his hand and ego with wild plots of revenge in between complaining about his shoes not being fit for the purpose of walking so far on the damnable soil. The guard Detri held his tongue, and would liberate the truth of things for a collection of coins once they returned. And about the same time that the knights made their way home was the purse thrown in Detri's direction and an observation made regaled.

Raucous laughter filled the noble's home, and all schemes were left cold in his mind at the information provided. He took a deep bath and was chuckling to himself all the while at the vicious account provided. Detri wanted nothing more than a glass of wine and to rest his feet, and be free of this ill minded noble.

And so it was.

Montbank landed in front of the carriage as they arrived. The mission had been a success, and their reward, in part, was one new carriage, two horses fit for purpose, and piles of ill gotten money.

The sky knight was ignorant of ingenuity of graft and conniving of plot that the noble Ottoman had committed to render these coins free from the people. And perhaps, even if he had, he would regard the forest's sake more important than the peasants. But such thoughts were above his rank, his was to serve the Order, not all peoples of all places. They, the Knights, were not liberators of cruelity. They were defenders of the Wylds. And such things required coin to function.

He preened himself for a moment, setting himself into proper fashion before he called to his comrades.

“Good work everyone,” Montbank admitted. And then he cocked his head at a most unusual sound.

The sound of metal beginning to flow, to rush, to spin and crash against itselfs. The sound of money rebelling against itself. Three sacks of coins were so afflicted, the bags crashing inside of itself as it gained animation and a flicker of sentience.

“What in blazes?” Montbank said, shock running through him. He drew his sword slowly at the prospect, and turned to his comrades.

“Get off the carriage! Something's wrong here!” Montbank declared, and took a single step backwards as the situation began to reveal itself.

The three bags of money, one fifth of the riches gained but enough to do their terrible work, were as a hive of bees, money flying in grapeshot like explosions within the carriage. They spiralled out, a gravity collecting them in orbit as they span around the carriage, and returned to the centre what was quickly becoming a shredded and devastated carriage. The metal was being hurled with great speed from an arcane construction, which had laid dormant.

A trap designed for the noble Ottoman by peasants who had known of his cruelity and went along with it to put an end to the idiot fancy man for good. The money had been enchanted to explode as a bomb, and continue to ravage that which lingered close to the carriage.

This is Montbank. Syr Bebin, we have a situation. Montbank carried a message telephatically through a arcane bauble upon his harness. He looked on in shock, as he had never seen such a sight before in all his days.

Money taking vengeance for itself.

Oliver Bebin Theros

 

[Oliver]

Home, at long last.

The reins were discarded summarily upon arrival, the vehicle shifting in a creak as he rose from the driver’s seat. Montbank’s congratulations were met with a glance and a nod, expressionless save for the edge of dejection in his eyes. Perhaps for this they were quick to avert, attention bouncing to Kaarle who was making to dismount in slow movements.

“ Why don’t you get that arm checked — “ He made to climb down from his post, ignoring the nervous nicker of the carriage horses. “ I’ll deal with what remains. The animals and such. “

“ You sure? “ It was with a sprinkle of proud displeasement as Kaarle regarded him, past his shoulder. Or was it doubt? Oliver’s soles made contact with the ground in heavy thud and clack of plate, his initial response a shrug of the shoulders.

“ Yes, I — “

He hadn’t time to convince any further, as Montbank called out an order, announcing a threat. Despite having perceived nothing thus far, the both of them obeyed and retreated in unison. And none too soon, as coin whistled through the air in ever accelerating vortex, splintering wood and pulverizing cushions.

In the next second, he’d already flipped down his visor and unsheathed a knife, going for the pulling pair of horses, which were slowly riling up to a panic. Kaarle’s voice was somewhere behind him, with his name and too reasonable of a request that he stop on his tracks, but to no avail. Metal made contact with his helm on its flight, staggering his step, if failing to discourage it.

In a swift motion, the small blade made contact with leather, hell-bent on cutting the animals loose. Lest they perish by whatever blasted magic was going on this time.

Theolonious Montbank Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Within the pools of the Nymphaeum, the Basilisk did rest. Eyes shut to the wide world around them as loose strands of blackberry tresses fanned wide about his crown, and the whole of him lay suspended within the effervescent and pale drink of those strange pools contained by the nymphaeus chambers Far bellow the roots of the Monastery.

Long rangings, and hard tasks took their toll on the aging knight. Not so long in the tooth as others, but he had pushed himself far and beyond what his body and mind could handle, on more than one adventure. Potions eased troubled nerves. Aided his recovery of magicks. But the trembling. The shakes. The long nights without the peace of sleep.

Long dives within the nymphaeum's pools were all that helped steady him. For a time. Longer dives. Less and less time between the episodes. Voices that called to him, when he knew none were there.


A ripple across the waters of his mind. The grey storm gathered beneath flesh and bone felt the pulse come clearer.

This is Montbank. Syr Bebin, we have a situation.

His eyes came open, as the pale blue of a distant oasis rippled across his gaze.

---

Theolonious Montbank Oliver

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The sound of metal pouring and coalescing about itself and in lashing, explosive motions was enough to unsettle beast and person alike. The horses bolted immediately after their cords were cut, panicking away in separate directions. Montbank was frozen, sword in hand as he witnessed the carriage buckle and fall under it's own weight, and he hoped against that this was just some temporary trap to be triggered, endured, and noted...

The carriage as quickly becoming nothing more than firewood as something emerged from the guts of the vehicle, the roof becoming an exit point to what was...

“It's a damned golem!” Montbank cried, and considered what to do. This was nothing like he was used to. Golems of flesh, perhaps could but cut. Of stone, smashed with bludgeoning.

Think Montbank think. Surely I've read something about golems.

But his mind was not so well suited to recall such esoteric knowledge.

He didn't have the mind to ask his comrades. If they knew a way, they would reveal it soon enough. But he did think to put his life on the line so that they might gain some distance and a hold on the situation.

Fluttering a moment to gain altitude, he saw the extent in which the willful money was spiralling upwards out of the shattered carriage roof, glittering violence that was less explosive now and more like a hurricane of coins, building speed and coiling out.

This is untenable. Still...

Montbank flew forward to distract the thing while other members of the Order might gather to assist. One breath of dragonflame might melt down this willful coinage, he thought, but Petra was most likely away on a mission of some kind. Ravelyn he knew was away studying drakes.

It's just us.

Raking a sword against the spiralling money which as he grew closer had a glittering face, two platinum pieces and what appeared to be a diamond which hovered within the hive of the hurricane.

“Weak point identified, it has-” Montbank declared, before his eyes saw the two platinum pieces shine and rotate towards him fully within the haze of financial noise.

Montbank was struck to the ground by a peppering of coins, his wings battered, his breastplate making horrible pranging sounds as he endured the corridor of possessed money.

Oliver Bebin Theros

 

[Oliver]

In a toss of the head and a wild neigh, the final horse was free. It launched into a furious escape without further ado, bucking fiercely, which he dodged only barely in a haphazard sidestep. But it was enough, allowing him to swiftly regain his distance from the chiming maelstrom.

A damned golem? He straightened once he was out of the vicinity of airborne, enchanted coin and stared at it, the center taking on a shape. Not anything that could be described simply, just a shifting mass that grew denser by some gravitational pull. Conflicted, he stood still, staring as the carriage crumbled to nothing like an eggshell.

Fuck. How does one even— Instinctively, he’d drawn out the hammer, hideously aware of how silly it made him feel the very next moment. But tt wasn’t like he had any better ideas — he’d rather appear like he at least tried, than be found performing his best impression of a man petrified.

Kaarle had his kite shield up, but that was about it. This didn’t seem like a predicament solved by a sword, so he’d left it unsheathed, look pointed upwards. Montbank appeared to be doing reconnaissance, flying about the golem at what he could only decide was a dangerous vicinity.

This became proven true, against his dearest hope for the contrary. A revelation was cut short, replaced by a great crash of a landing, metal striking armour and feather.

Oliver hadn’t the wit to even begin guessing whatever this mentioned weak point might be, let alone where. He watched through the swirling air as Kaarle started towards Syr Montbank without a second thought, shield up in preparation be there need to weather another strike from the loot that had become its own guardian.

A curse or a trap, to be lifted, disarmed, or taken apart. Did this mechanism even have a corresponding wrench?

 

[Bebin Theros]

Viscous fluid ran from his form. Hissed and bubbled as it dripped across the stone floors. The fumes, straight to his mind, caused vision to blur, caused hands to look like roots, to look like fins, to look like feathers, and tendrils of smoke. Bebin clenched his jaw as he made sturdy his step.

His jacket on, his legs slipped through each pantleg as bare feet slapped against the stone. His head a whirl as the voices wracked his mind.

Steady. Calm. Tranquil.

Syr Bebin braced himself against old wooden table. Shook vials and phylacteries littered about as he drew in breath. Fell into the waters of his own mind. Felt the minds of all those within the premise. A surge of consciousness that threatened to drown his psyche.

Threat. Danger. Money.

It was through Vasera's eyes that he could see the enemy. The web of his mind, so tangled with the networks of his fellow Sworn brothers and sisters.

Reinforcements, enroute.

The Pursuant might hear in his mind.

Strike for the Diamond Heart.

Came the magick born compulsion. Like the ripple from a distant splash come against the banks of his mind. Should he hear Bebin's call through the Loch.

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Montbank felt the protecting shade of the kite shield guard him from another smattering of coins as he blinked away the pain and tried to ascertain the damage. He looked down at his breastplate which had numerous coins lodged within it...coins that trembled with wilfulness. He picked out one, and watched as the coin hovered and lurched back towards it's host entity. Other coins didn't have the same command.

Curious.

No time for such things. Got to do something while reinforcements arrive. Distract the damned thing Theo. Do your duty.

Montbank nodded at his comrade who had protected him so in gratitude, yet was quick to break away. He felt his chest ache from coins hurled in such explosive torrents. He took three long strides in a run and beat his wings, and was once again in the quick form of flight.

https://soundcloud.com/david-giffard%2Freharl-chronicles-the-haze-of-financial-noise

The strategy was different this time, the flying pattern designed for evasive manoeuvres, his eyes focused on the building tension in the tendrils of the golem that roiled like a sparkling fountain of metal. He spiralled around the golem to try and lure it into striking, and Montbank lured an amount of coin that was enough for to pay for the lesser lord's lavish meals for a month.

Arcing and gaining distance away from the strike, Montbank evaded the blow and held the creature's attention with his own battlecry, that distinctive sound of the snow owl that was rarely heard at all from Theo. Silence was his usual byword.

But there was nothing usual about this freshly minted circumstance.

The golem kept those two platinum pieces for eyes fixed upon the bird knight, the diamond shimmering with latent power as it fuelled the enterprise of misplaced vengeance for the lesser folk.

 

[Oliver]

Impressions of possible solutions had been flashing by his vision, blurry and uncertain, all together coalescing to absurdity. The coins kept flitting about, in what he could only deem an accelerating whirlpool, something like limbs stretching out in offense. One such strike forced him to retreat, in a wild leap of a sidestep and a yelp that just about escaped from betwixt grit teeth.

Through the golem he could see the figures of his comrades, dealing with the storm to the best of their ability. He was relieved to see Montbank rise, taking flight again. A startled breath ricocheted within the helm, deafening. And then, nothing.

A chill washed over him, in the way that walking through a waterfall on a hot day did. A shock, a respite. Beyond was a cavern of calm, a stillness belongs to the bottom of a lake, and within it echoed a voice. A rumbling of waves.

It assured and instructed like an old friend or a revered mentor long lost. Disobedience and distrust were furthest from his mind as it all abated like the tide.

A diamond. Furiously looking for any such thing within the noise of coin, he flipped up the visor. Realizing this, Kaarle glared at him with disoriented questioning, having been circling the maelstrom.

“ Oliver — What is it!? “

“ There’s a diamond midst the coin. It keeps the magic, apparently. “

Mouthing a curse, the man shifted his stare back at the construct with a startling amount of outright acceptance. It was unheard of that Syr Leinas would’ve taken his word for anything so readily.

“ It’s in the middle of the — “

“ I know. Just spotted it. “

A clatter nigh deadened out the words, pulling their collective attention to watch Montbank maneuver around the golem, arresting its aggression. All too opportune was the fast fleeting moment. In a creak of rivets, the sallet was yet again sealed, hiding his visage.

“ Wish me luck— “

A leather glove grabbed him by the arm, intervening.

“ No — Your plate is nothing to it. That one strike battered Montbank’s armour— “

“ Then lend me your shield. “

Despite the conflict upon his face, Kaarle bent into the request. An incantation was muttered upon the exchange, hand tapping a parting gesture on painted wood. A nod was enough thanks betwixt them.

“ Syr Theros is on his way. Keep distance. “

Oliver turned his back to a disagreeing huff, checking the above once more. A distraction yet remained, waiting to be seized. So he did.

The kite shield was held at the fore as he launched into a sprint, readying to ram through the mass of living gold. It would take timing and luck to hit the target in passing, for staying wasn’t an option, but—

Kicking up dust and debris from the pulverized carriage, he leaped for it, hammer already half aswing. Coin pattered against the shield like hail.

Bebin Theros Theolonious Montbank

 

[Bebin Theros]

Quick as his limbs would take him, Syr Theros made through the Grotto. The labyrinthian halls of the understructure of the monastery, designed to guard its confines and all the secrets it held to the uninitiated, and the unwelcomed. The halls of his own mind had to render the secrets as it battled to hold off the memories of the tank.

Horrors within the woods. Cultists void of eyes. Tendrils that lurked and reached about the corners of his vision.

He need control his breath. Measure the air that entered and left his lungs with each pull of life's rhythm.

As fast as his legs could take him, they would not be fast enough.

But within the grounds of the Monastery, where the networks of ancient rune wards, and glyph circles were arrayed by hands and minds of ages past, tended to by traditions kept alive through those cycles of moon and stars, reinforced by teachings oral and written, Bebin could enter the Loch, almost as easily as he drew breath. For this was his home. His mind had mapped and catalogued much over years of persistence.

Within his mind's eye. The subliminal space beneath his consciousness, he could see the waking mind's of man. Could relay the message. Help assuage panic. Encourage action.

Some would be too startled by the sudden intrusion. Some would reject it outright. Some would feel nothing at all. But a whisper of the wind against their ear.

Knights and squires began t array about the golem, shields raised before them as they stood tight and close, as if dwarves fighting through their tunnels, their postures bent, their frames braced as the whips of coin lashed at them and saw to strike them down.

Syr Sando, a knight of Dawn, wielder of Flame, drew his rune-carved dagger with its willow-wand hilt. With quick flicks of the wrist and sweep of the arm, he carved the air with his tool of focus. It's glimmering point alight with magick's light, saw a seal of runes scorched within the still wind his breath seemed to hold.

Enkindle.

Syr Vasara's Hammer glew bright. Its metal engulfed in magick fire that cracked to life and hissed with power.


Theolonious Montbank Oliver

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The platinum coins harboured a cold malice, shimmering from behind the nest of gold coins that span upon themselves in angry mass. Avian eyes locked to them as wings did propel in arcing motion, and as if the gaze locking propelled those platinum coins into confrontation. They shot forward towards the sky knight, shining, glimmering, blinding. Those two coins for eyes did frown for virtue of the coins that did give them feature, the light spitting out of the diamond towards those two discs, and outward it was projected from those mirrors. And outward did that gaze cast out it's eye searing malady at the sky knight.

Too late was the glance away, his eyes not capable of moving within their sockets, for such was the feature of the owl to turn the head and not the eye itself. All was a hazy white and burning optic blue, the winged one pitching far up and away. He beat his wings and tried to blink away the white halo that pervaded his vision, to no avail.

Damnation, crooked luck that robs me! Montbank thought as he pitched away from the battle as his senses fought against the spiting diamond's hold on his vision.

The platinium coins so extended from their effort to blind the sky knight, revealed much in the weakness of its own construction. The diamond span upon an erratic axis of ever flowing coins as it charged upon another trap for those who had sprung it so. The coins were extended to make the golem reach the sky knight's location, and so was revealing in it's vulnerabilities.

Vulnerabilities that were open to Oliver who flung himself so valiantly towards the golem's heart, the focus of such a low sentience upon the efforts to disable the sky knight. With hammer raised and shield offered against the race of coins, the leap brought Oliver close to the heart of the matter.

Hammerblow found purchase against the diamond, cracking it firmly, before a mass of coins, a good weight of the creature, fell down as if littering the land with fortune.

The coins for eyes did spin about themselves in something simulating pain, the golem lurching in torrent away from the hammerblow, sequestering the cracked diamond within what be called it's chest. The coins did amass themselves in a tight sphere of coins, a rushing fluid of metal that offered no entrance, nor offense in which to produce. The golem's eyes lurked within it for long moments and it surged away from Oliver's hammer, and slowly did they burn with increasing brightness as it sought another blast of light to blind this one too.

The number of coins on offer had been lessened, and instead of two arms was now amassing a singular wrist with flattened fist, that lingered, that tensed, readying a firm punishing smattering of metal to those who might approach as boldly as Syr Oliver had done.

Bebin Theros Oliver