Completed Ambush at Farreach Woods

Fain

The Knight
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Upon burning Grayshore and crossing the Sayve, the warbands of the great green dragon soon passed into the woods upon the far side of the river. The deciduous trees shrouded the sky with their leafy canopies. Dense underbrush made slow going and the orc tribe, not used to organizing long standing campaigns, had no developed wagon train or rear guard.

As Khurash tramped through the brush and trees, his two wargs padding along beside him, there was an eerie silence that made him suddenly pause.

Then, from all around, came the blare of Allirian war horns followed swiftly by a hissing like angry adders or buzzing hornets. Beside Khurash, an orc warrior fell gurgling, pierced by two arrows through the chest.

Khurash's eyes widened and he sought shelter behind the nearest tree.

"AAAMBUUUUSH!"

The Allirian Rangers had come at last.
 
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Keeley was up high in the canopy of a tree. She heard Jarod’s whispered voice beneath her. His cropped orange haired head moving a fraction. “Kee, did ye signal lieutenant Gibbs?”

“Yes,” her whispered reply as she looked through the gnarled underbrush beneath them. One green eyed and one blue narrowing. “It’s a whole tribe. The reports left out a few numbers.”

“Stick to orders then. Fire and withdraw. Keep ‘em guessing where we are,” Jarod grunted, keeping a close eye on the half-elf.

“Don’t try to mother hen me now. All this time and you've kept me alive, haven't you?” She mouthed a kiss in his direction and he swore, releasing an arrow into the orcs marching below. Quickly followed by one of her own.

“Mind the traps we set,” Jarod offered a final warning as he released another arrow.
 
Hanuman, who had joined the ranks following the burning of Greyshore, stood in place as the warband scattered to find cover. The Kha'atari calmly looked above and ahead as arrows showered down. This, too, was a way of fighting, the four-armed behemoth mused. He snorted and tightly gripped the shaft of his spear.

Powerful strides kicked up clumps of dirt as Hanuman moved with swiftness unbecoming of his size. Mid-stride, he bent down to seize a fallen orc with two arrows sticking out from his chest by his neck and held the thick, muscled body up in front of him as he ran towards his attackers. He unlooped one of the two handaxes that dangled from the orc's lifeless body before tossing the shield of flesh to the dirt.

Hanuman cocked his arm back and blindly hurled the axe into the canopy with terrifying force. A skinny elf fell from his perch, the axehead embedded deep in his chest, and landed on his head, dying instantly. Hanuman lifted the dead archer by his arms and legs with his three empty hands and mightily roared as he dismembered the corpse.

His loose robes fell from his shoulders as he stretched his four arms and flexed his mighty form. The warrior's voice boomed and echoed in the forest. As arrows rained down on Hanuman, wisps of a lukewarm, smokeless white flame rose from his body, and a skinny, flaming ring formed above his head. The arrows that struck Hanuman's skin splintered and fell onto the grass around him.
 
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Arianrhod cursed.

Aodh had been a hunting companion for the last few decades. An artist with the blade, his skill at torment had been the talk of even rival tribes. He'd been a constant in forced marches, dawn raids, and even shared a bedroll when she'd the urge. Aodh was never going to dance a corpse around the feasting fires or torch huts with wild abandon.

She shoved the arrow deeper into his throat, cutting short the twitching and rasping. He'd probably not even been a target but he'd caught a stray arrow as they emerged from the treeline. Over a century of experience snuffed out by an arrow that had probably cost a tuppence.

A mercy. She shoved Aodh out of her head and focused on nocking another arrow. There were others of her kin on this side of the river, fighting alongside the Allirians. Arianrhod snarled in derision. She'd plied her trade as a mercenary before and was doing so again but only a true traitor fought alongside the humans and called them ally. A movement in the trees and she loosed. She didn't hit but shoot enough arrows and they'd keep their heads down.

"Ware" she called, stopping one of the band's newest members rushing forward. A half dozen orcs surged past, jeering at the perceived elven cowardice. Arianrhod watched impassively as they whooped and yelled. They made another score of paces before a spiked log detached from a branch and crashed into them.

She'd always preferred being the one ambushing, it wasn't as fun being ambushed.
 
“Report Grinwald,” the lieutenant barked out, keeping the chestnut horse she sat astride calm. Eyes like embers watched the thicket. Even from these back lines she could hear the roar of battle. The tops of trees swayed as their traps were triggered. Screams of orcs filled the air. Screams of her fellow rangers did too.

The rangers always had less resources available. Hell, her fuking coffee this morning was barely stronger than horse piss. There was a reason why they took advantage of surprise and higher ground when they could. Not only that but…

“The western logs have been triggered. Might not be enough to really slow ‘em.”

Monty’s gaze flickered to the recruit. Still so young. So damn young. Nervous and eager at the same time. She hated when the major thrust them to the front. Her scarred cheek clenched.

They still had the pits and a few other surprises. If not…her hand curled into a fist at her side. She’d be ready.
 
After the razing of Greyshore word spread of the Orcs. More where crossing the Sayve River to join the Horde as word stretched across into the southern Spine.

The Horde grew. Alliria would know they were coming now.

Travel through forested areas was slow, disorganized. If the Horde had a single glaring weakness it was that it lacked the discipline of a professional army. As it crossed the breadth of the Allir Reach towards its destination it would be impossible to hide.

The Ambush was almost expected.

Amidst the cries of pain that rose as arrows pierced their breasts and warriors fell others took up the bloodlust contained in their hearts and howls of anger and rage rose up in a unified defiance. Orcs who had bows would raise them, arrows nocked and fire blindly into the trees whereas others sought to wet their blades in flesh.

Above it all the sun momentarily faded, the trees bent to one side their trunks yawning and the wind roared as something enormous passed overhead.
 
The College of Elbion was for LOSERS.

That's right. Somebody had to say it. Who better than her? No wonder Great Maho came to burn it down--hey, hey, and the only reason they were able to stop him was because he had better things to do, he was just sending a message. Anyway. Imagine. Imagine being stuck in class learning about a bunch of bullshit numbers for "mathematics" because, hurr durr, its important for spatial reasoning and that's important for dumb disciplines like Alteration and Conjuration and, yaaaawn, booooo, get off the stage PROFESSOR. Imagine being stuck in that when you could be stuck in this:

Falling in with a big band of orcs lead by massive green dragon and marching off to war with whatever ditsy-do establishment was in their way and then all of sudden they were ambushed.

AMBUSHED!

Visha thrust the butt of her staff down onto the dirt and slammed her free hand onto her hip and, as arrows zipped by and only through slim chance and circumstance missing her and striking some of the orc warriors nearby, declared, "AH HA! Now we know where they are!"

Who was "they," specifically? Shh! Sshhhhh. Don't ask questions. Just savor the moment.

Oh look, one of the orc warriors fell down dead. Visha shot a glance to Khurash. Said gleefully, "Looks like he's not having fun!"

And she looked out to the trees, ready to summon flames of all beautiful sorts to set the forest and the bowmen ablaze...when one step forward saw her ankle become ensnared in one of the very traps that Jarod, unbeknownst to Visha, had mentioned to Keeley. Visha let out a yelp of surprise as she her legs shot up over her head and she was lifted off of the ground and was now hanging, upside down, from the snare trap like freshly caught game.

A skinny elf, falling from the tree with Hanuman's axe buried in his chest, crashed to the ground somewhat near to where Visha was dangling.

She said, flatly, as if in disbelief of her own clearly astounding skill, "Oh look, I got one."

Khurash Geladryx Hanuman Arianrhod Keeley Monty
 
The pyromancer started babbling. Khurash stared blankly at her, his broad lips twitching, as all around them arrows hissed and orcs died. The forest filled with muffled shouts and screams as the tribes descended into chaos. The Exile made no move to stop the witch as she darted out from behind cover, for he did not trust witches and was half-convinced she had already placed a spell on him just by speaking.

Suddenly, the leaves stirred beneath her feet and a rope trap snared her foot, dragged her up into the sky to dangle from a tree limb. Khurash glowered, all thoughts of spells forgotten.

"Fool witch," he rumbled.

Nearby, the four-armed mercenary charged past, felling a ranger with an axe. Khurash had never behelld the like of Hanuman and knew he must come from afar. The ancestors said nothing of such warriors.

Pausing long enough to have gained his bearings, Khurash stepped from behind the tree and followed after Hanuman, stopping just long enough to hack Visha Sofka down from where she dangled with a single swing of his axe, then he was off once more. His warg bounded along beside him. At a wordless gesture from him they raced ahead of both Khurash and Hanuman, sniffing out the stench of the rangers and leading the two warriors straight toward the nearest foes.
 
“I think I just saw…,” head shook as she disappeared beneath the branches. Couldn’t be. Nine hells. A dragon?!

“Ye well, just saw Ceit dismembered by some four-armed beast. Keep going Keeley!” He released another arrow.

Keep going keep going. She paused. He was several branches behind. She was always faster. Being an elf had advantages over a human body. Nocking an arrow to her bow she paused, hooking her legs between two branches and swung her body downward. Upside down, she sighted at the two beasts coming to the edge of Jarod’s tree and fired.

At first it looked like she missed.

But then there was a small snapping sound as the trap she triggered sent sharpened stakes of wood shooting out from between two trees. Another arrow was set on her bow as she released it at the ugly orc’s shoulder walking next to the four-armed…thing.
 
The canopy quivered as the dragon soared above.

Hanuman dropped Ceit the Ranger's arms and leg in the grass as an orc, decorated with bone piercings and paint for war, stepped up to his side. The Kha'atari looked at the tribal warrior with red eyes that smoldered with insane cruelty.

He wordlessly stomped onward and followed the war beasts from a growing distance as they dove into the brush. As arrows continued to splinter against his skin, Hanuman thought the war beasts would make an excellent meal.

The ring of smokeless fire that burned above Hanuman's head flickered into nothingness, and he began to evade the oncoming arrows. The war-bringer jogged around thick trees and past a sprung trap, its spikes wet with fresh blood. Though he could not see the orc's war beasts, the Kha'atari followed a trail of blood, knuckles white as he gripped his spear.

Three arrows grazed his flesh as he followed the wargs. Pain like pinpricks. A mere annoyance. Running or walking, Hanuman's strides were mighty. When he caught up to the wargs, he found himself in a clearing with the sound of battle some ways behind him. One of the beasts, its coat slick with blood, circled an open pit, growling and hissing down the hole. Hanuman approached and leaned over the opening to see the second beast limping at the bottom, occasionally standing on its one good hind leg and clawing at the dirt wall.

It was a pit so deep even he, with his physical advantages, would struggle to climb from. He thought these trapmakers to be a cowardly but effective foe and passable adversary to do battle with.

He thrust the head of his spear into the dirt and spread his arms out.

The dragon's shadow danced across the clearing.
 
The Howl of the wind continued to rise above the trees. A shadow washed over the treetops a second time causing the timber of the forest to yawn as it bent to one side in the wake of an enormous figure passing overhead again.

Down below the Orcs responded. In the shadow of this presence many of them would fight harder. If any lacked courage in the face of this ambush they found it as the sensation of an ominous power clawed its way into their mind like a reassuring hand on their shoulder.

Then it happened.

CRAAAAAACK!!!!

Tree limbs snapped, branches where destroyed and trunks erupted into a volley of tinder.

The Emerald Death descended, smashing through the canopy of the forest all the way down below and destroying entire evergreens in the process.

When he came to the ground the Dragon had landed on the side opposite the ambush, deeper into the woods so that if his enemy attempted to flee they would find him obstructing their path. The Allirian Rangers would meet either victory or death and victory was an option Geladryx meant to deprive them.

As the scythe-like claws of his forelimbs flexed, digging enormous ruts into the earth the dragon moved around trees with a tactile grace. Repositioning himself carefully while focusing on the area around him, his senses vastly superior to those of mortal men. Nostrils flared, inhaling the multitude of scents that hung in the air and his eyes widened for a brief moment as the dragon recognized something....

"Elves."

...he hissed, a fetid exhale of breath that stunk of rotten flesh accompanying his words...

"Elvesssssssss. Kill them all."
 
Yelps of pain, then enraged snarling came from the two wargs as stakes stuck embedded in their bodies bristled from their fur like strange growths. They barely slowed their bounding through the forest, until the earth suddenly dropped out beneath one and he fell into a pit.

Cursing the earth spirits for their treachery, Khurash stopped beside the pit and looked down to see his wounded companion limping at the bottom. A fury then beset him and he saw only red.

The world shifted as trees swayed beneath the dragon’s landing, but Khurash was focused on the hunt. Ahead, a she-elf hung from a branch. Shoving aside an injured orc, Khurash took the orc’s javelin and hurled it at the she-elf.
 
Eyes widened as one of the ugliest ones saw her. With a grunt, she dropped from the tree as the spear sailed through the air she just vacated. Her lithe body twisted in the air and she landed on her feet.

She could hear the yips of one of the injured dog-like creatures and saw the strange four-armed beast spread his limbs. Was he performing a religious introspection? But her sights were on the one who'd just thrown his spear.

"Keeley!" Jarod called down after her, covering her from above with a steady thwack of arrows even as the ground rumbled from the landing of a beast far away. The trees trembled and shook. "You're dead!" She yelled at Khurash as she nocked an arrow to the bow and fired it at his massive chest and then another.
 
Varys certainly didn't consider himself an Allirian Ranger; He'd only been to Alliria once, and he hadn't found it all too terribly pleasant. In the overall conflict they had with their enemies, San'Seya really didn't have a dog in the fight. Regardless, he'd been offered a decent sum of money by the rangers to lend his hand to the effort in quashing the incoming brigade of warbands. After all, not many could say they had the powers of a Speaker in their back pocket in case of an emergency.

Still, as he pressed his back against the thick trunk of the tree, the sounds of battle and shouting filling the air as an arrow whizzed past his hiding spot, he wondered if maybe he'd gotten in over his head on this one.

Ever since completing his apprenticeship and going out on his own, Varys had found much more thrill in finding trouble and solving problems than he had practicing magic and alchemy as he'd been trained. He was still very young for an elf, after all. Why not put his vitality to the test, why not use his powers for people who truly needed them?

To his left, he heard a female grunt, and turned his head to see Keeley landing swiftly on the ground before readying her bow, followed by Jarod's call to her. Varys would echo this. "If I may, Miss Keeley, you're going to get yourself killed standing down here!" She was gutsy, but that was why Varys had taken a liking to the elven girl. She reminded him a lot of himself.

There was little hope for them all to make it out of this situation unscathed, especially with that dragon flying about. That god damned dragon... Varys wanted it on his mantle for all the trouble it was causing him today. No, he had to act. Hiding behind a tree wouldn't do him much good. So, darting out from his spot, the rather human-dressed elf rolled to Keeley's side and held out a hand. "Give me an arrow!" He barked. He had faith in her aim, but he had a way to make sure she hit her target.

His other hand pressed to the ground beneath them as he waited for his arrow, and soft mumbled words would spill from his lips to the dirt beneath. Thin, hairline cracks in the earth would run out from between his fingers, shooting out rapidly towards the unsightly Khurash and any of his forces behind him.

Pitfall traps; he'd humbly requested the dirt hollow out in small places surrounding their enemy. Should they make a wrong step, their weight would send them sinking into the dirt.
 
Visha fell once cut loose by Khurash and thumped softly onto the forest floor. Alright, so not that softly--the trap had her hanging high enough that her hands couldn't touch the ground. But. Otherwise. A little splat on the dirt, stand up, brush herself off, almost get shot, mumble "Oh shit," take cover behind a tree, and all was good!

She peeked out.

Enough to see the wargs rampaging off into the brush and to see Hanuman (hey that guy had four arms) following behind them. And then as she was about to look elsewhere something changed and she looked back and saw that WHOA wait-a-minute since when did Quad-arms over there have FIRE for hair! How did she not NOTICE that before?? And it went out, that ring, that fire that gave off no smoke--much like her eyebrow and shoulder gouts from her own Impassioned Blaze. It went out. Aw. Well, the best part about one fire going out was setting a new one.

Then.

Trees cracked and burst and the ground shook and Visha knew who that was. Mmmmmmm-hmmmmmm!

"HEEEEEEEEEE'S HEEERRRRRRREEEEE!" she called out in a taunting, sing-song voice. Elves, huh. You know what Visha liked about elves? Long ears could be like fuses! Think about it. Set the tips on fire, let them burn all the way down, and then boom, bad hair day. Everybody laughs!

Alright. Time to get serious.

And the first step to getting serious was giggling like a maniac. Apparently. She just couldn't help herself as she stepped out beside her cover and eyed her target, a treetop from which one elf (her name was Keeley, but that can be our little secret) had just dropped out of. Still there were arrows coming from that tree. Which meant elves. Which meant BURNT BODIES FOR THE DRAGON AND FOR GREAT MAHO.

Visha grinned with a mad pleasure as she started to channel pyromantic magic through herself, through her staff, gouts of fire erupting from her eyebrows. The tip of her staff and the palm of her free hand likewise became enwreathed in flame as she channeled. The area about the top of that particular tree upon which Visha had set her eyes began to heat up rapidly, leaves beginning to steam and their edges glowing as embers of fire took hold on them. Almost. Almost...!

"WARGS! LOVE! BACON!"

Her spell complete, a fiery explosion centered on the tree top blasted out a shockwave and ribbons of flame, debris from the tree top flying and falling in a shower as it was blown apart, branches tumbling with their flaming payloads of burning leaves, and indeed the upper quarter of the tree groaning and then snapping off from the rest of the trunk, plummeting down, down, down.

"Ah ha!"

So, wasn't her best battle shout, the bacon bit, but, hey, there was at least one ranger she saw who fell, charred like the leaves, down into the waiting jaws of the wargs below. Ahhh...how could she be this good? Imagine if she had four arms. Imagine! Double the pyromancy!

Then she took one triumphant step forward and immediately sunk up to her chest into one of Varys's Pitfall traps.

Visha glanced around. Indignant. "Damn it! Who did that??"

Geladryx Hanuman Varys San'Seya Khurash Keeley Arianrhod
 
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There is bloodshed here.

The vibrations of war could be felt through the very ground. He had been guided here, by invisible and infallible hand, as he was through all things. The countryside prior to this had been razed, and yet it was different than brigands. The earth stank of ancient power in its wake.

Thunderous booms shook a frail chest, and wizened bare feet plodded forwards into the ever-thickening smoke. He was a pitiful site, bent so far that he threatened to topple forwards beneath the weight of his burden, which rested heavily upon his back. His robes were dirty, torn, and hastily wrapped, but from the gray and sickly appearance of his arms and bare feet the clothing was a mercy to the eyes of any onlookers.

His head traced the movement of the dragon across the sky. Massive, yet passing over in seconds. The black chasm behind his hood stared up at it, snaking from one side to the other in a long and unnatural motion.

This was a good place. War produced those who were hungry for power, and The Pilgrim walked a path that promised greatness. There would be many possible followers here. Many who may wish to walk with Him.

He was in the thick of it now, the stench of blood and fire all-consuming. A warbeast rushed ahead of him, yet despite its keen senses did little to react to his presence. Perhaps it was his slow, methodical movements, or his frail and unthreatening posture. Perhaps it was the same reason that most animals avoided or ignored him.

He saw the beast fall, saw its companion circle. Finally he saw a very peculiar creature emerge. He thought it to be another simple beast until it produced a weapon. Surely such a thing was redundant to a being with so many arms and such stature. By the time the orc joined, the bent figure had reached the pit.

He was unsure, at first, whether to intervene. There would be converts on either side of this conflict, perhaps he should not choose so soon. Yet as the great green dragon hissed "Elves" he felt an intense hatred flare from his back.

It seemed his side had been chosen.

His hood twisted up in a slow, jagged movement to meet the two taller figures with a look of endless black.

"Do you seek strength?" His gaze crumpled back down to the beast in the hole. "Or your companion exhumed?"

An arrow whistled from the trees but flared to ash as it came within an arm's reach of his pack, dusting it with gray.
 
Kiros?”

The voice that called out was entirely unfamiliar, yet referred to him by name. At the mere mention of it, Kiros snapped to attention with his staff held firmly in grip. He knew of but two entities that would know of and hold interest him; Dornoch wished to deliver him unto Annuakat, which in turn would surely see him executed in short order for what he had done those many years ago.

With tension in his body and preparations for conflict running through his mind, Kiros turned to face whomever had beckoned him. The fear and ferocity of his battle-ready expression was of needless intensity, for the old man who called out appeared to be of neither nation that concerned him.

Rather, the old man’s own fright was on open display, prompting Kiros to turn his expression from concern to bewilderment. If not to capture him, he held little idea of what this odd stranger might want. There was a straightforward means of obtaining such information; yet before he could pose his question the man piped up with further inquiry.

“Are you Kiros? The lunar priest?” The old man asked. The tone of his voice implied he arrived without hostile intent, but clearly this man knew of him. And in the moment, he felt certain that his man must know of his sordid past. In his state of tension, he could hardly fathom what else he might be known for.

“Savior of the Crook? Prophet of Pneria? Y’help save folks, right? 'Cause dragons and orcs are attacking us!” Kiros was immediately taken aback. His expression relaxed some, now that he could be sure infamy about the murders were not the reason he was recognized. She had announced Herself, this he knew; that She had announced him was entirely new information.

By the greater gods! What had She done? For sixteen years he had managed to keep his profile low, and in an apparent instant She had undone his efforts. While this had not lead to a hostile encounter this time, one now seemed inevitable. To compromise him as She evidently had done – She may as well have emblazoned the word ‘heretic’ upon his forehead. Disgusting as the notion was, he’d still have had an easier time explaining away that than the perceived situation faced. He had been wise enough to use a pseudonym all these years, but if the interest in him were as true as implied, that may no longer be enough to escape his discarded identity.

If. Fret would lead nowhere. He could only guess at how bad matters had become. This stranger before him knew more than he did, and he had arrived in search of aid. So he saw two options laid before him; scurry away with worry and without knowledge, or pledge his aid and gleam it from him. A strange irony it would have been that his safety lay towards an undoubtedly horrible battle, and not away from it.

Strange it would have been, were he not a priest of Hers.

“Yes, I am he of whom you speak. But why have you sought me out? How is it you know of me?” Kiros replied.

“I don’t know! I just guessed! You looked like you might be the guy, I think. And I sure hoped it was you, ‘cause we really need help here-”

“...Have you been asking every Kaliti priest if they are Pneria’s prophet?” Kiros interrupted him with a raised eyebrow.

“No. Well I mean yes; well I mean you’re the first one I saw. So that symbol on your stick then, that's Her sign?” No sooner had he given a unwitting nod than the old man began to lower himself onto his knees; only to be suddenly interrupted by Kiros, who shoved and then caught him by the shoulder as if his life depended upon it.

Which it, in fact, did.

“Cease!!” His booming voice caused the man to shake in confused fear. But how could he know how foolish his attempt at worship was? Kiros had gotten himself into his very situation out of youthful impulsiveness; much as he hated his lot in life, he found it difficult to deny it deserved.

“I pledge my aid!” Kiros added briskly, and his mind began to muse. She had placed him in this mess, had She not? And She had gone so far as to publicly name him. He wanted none of this himself, and reasonably doubted She would want to pledge her aid – but She had declared him as Her prophet. What would She do if he pledged aid in Her name? Smite him? Undoubtedly.

But before She did that, She’d surely have to let him aid them. She was clearly averse to delivering punishment upon him before an audience, and he was eager for any tactic that might wrest his own independence from Her.

“As does She. But make no plea to Her, this you must trust to me alone. To do otherwise is dangerous sacrilege.” Kiros continued; to his relief, he received a nod in response.

He had already saved one life. Now, under the guidance of this man, he would set out in attempt to save many more.

* * *
By the greater gods, indeed. Rumors had abounded; that he was seven feet tall, that his eyes shone with orange glow. Some had even gallingly heard he was Abtati, for some reason. Even his mentioned name was one of many; that the old man got it right seemed to be mere luck. It further seemed any odd priest might have warranted their attention in their search for aid; hope had apparantly prompted the chance meeting. His mere presence dispelled these false beliefs, though some were a bit disappointed that he was little more than a moderately tall Kaliti.

The preparations had been quick; at least what he had seen since his arrival. They moved through the forest, and Kiros held his staff at the ready with both hands. He was not skilled with a bow; he had even proven such during training. And to such a degree that no elf who witnessed trusted him with one in hand. Not that he could deny the concerns were fair. Marksmanship was neither a skill he held, nor cause for his presence; his true talent lied in dealing with the arcane. His staff, as he learned, had become a tool that could help him in these matters.

Not that Itra told him this when She returned it to him. As always, he was left to figure out that newly granted facet to Heirahit himself; and still hardly understood it. From what he could discern so far, he could sense magic so long as he held it. His time with it had been too brief to learn much else besides that.

It seemed a sudden instant when the orders were given, and arrows had been loosed. Kiros pressed on, eyes towards any potential threat that he might need to act against. His luminant curtain could prevent outflanking, and his incantation of immute could protect against arcane attack. In the skies above flew a great dragon, to which he had no such answer. But the Allirians had prepared, and he could only hope they had one as it flew over and past.

To his front, elves could be heard speaking amidst combat with arrows loosed from the tree above them. It seemed had arrived on the front lines then, hinted at by the steady stream of arrows. The enemy must be nearby, even if he could not yet see them. With haste he pressed forward, and his staff gave a barely felt sensation as he held it; causing his hesitation just in time to witness tree to his front burst aflame.

A second hint then...this foe wielded magic. With purpose before him, he rushed onward; no sooner did he catch sight of Visha than the red haired pyromancer disappeared into the earth.

Heirahit gave no sign at this. For the briefest of moments, Kiros wondered why this act of assumed geomancy had eluded his senses.

Oh right. The traps.

His pace immediately became much more cautious.
 
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Sounds of battle and bloodshed filled the senses of Geladryx.

The Dragon, after landing in the forest and reducing several trees to tinder to the rear of the ambush had found his senses filled with the carnage of battle. Among the various scents filling his nostrils the smell of Elves stood out the most to him. Geladryx knew the Elves, prior to making his domain in the southern Spine he had been born in the Falwood generations ago and remembered them well.

As he stalked closer to the battle, ocherous pupils adjusting to the environment the Dragon's heightened senses allowed him to perceive even the most minute motions. Archers in the trees were not hidden from him despite their ability to blend with the foliage.

An Elf, nameless as far as the great serpent knew would loose an arrow in his direction when he noticed his approach. Futile. The Dragon, turning his head sparsely would barely register the ricochet when the arrow deflected off his scales. It was like shooting at thick plates of steel. Armorers and Alchemists could attest to how durable a dragons scales could be ensuring they were sought after by many in the trade.

Rearing his head Geladryx let his eyes narrow, transforming them into slits while the ridges of his mouth curled revealing sword-like teeth and the frills running the length of his back pulsed energetically.

Foolish Gnats! I am Geladryx, the Emerald Death. My will is eternal, my horde immortal. You are flecks of sand that stand against the overwhelming tide!

As he spoke wisps of sickly colored vapor wafted from the corners of his mouth. When he concluded his rhetoric the Emerald Deaths maw would open and he would expunge an enormous goat of gaseous breath. The Chlorine Gasses would expel upwards, guided by the Dragon as he unleashed them until they washed across the treetops and smothered the canopy above ensuring ambushers hiding above would feel their full affects. Those caught above the forest floor in the gasses would experience limited effects from the exposure initially ranging from shortness of breath, fatigue, irritation of the eyes and weakness. Those unable to escape the clouds of chlorine gas forming in the aftermath of the Dragon's expulsion of breath would feel their throats begin to tighten, the gasses suffocating them with every breath and causing their lungs to hemorrhage. A horrible way to die.

Khurash Keeley Monty Hanuman Varys San'Seya Visha Sofka The Pilgrim Kiros Rahnel

 
All around him, the strong consumed the weak, and then the stronger consumed them as well. Hanuman was a master in the many ways of ending lives; he was a merchant whose trade was fire, and his wares ashes. But he was no strategist and could not say which side would benefit from a prolonged skirmish. Better to end things quickly. Yantis repeated to him many times that death was best served with the first blow.

Just as he concluded his thoughts, the dragon landed and brought his arms back to himself. The battle raged on. Khurash fought the frail archers, who, despite their size, proved to be adequate fighters. Then there was this... thing.

"What manner of misbegotten wretch are you?" said Hanuman. His voice was like drifting ash, and it was a dreadful timbre. What it offered mattered little to the manslayer. He needed only the flame of his soul and the heart that pumped blood through his muscles. Four red eyes glared down at the robed one before he, with a wicked scoff, turned his attention back to the battle. Hanuman stomped forward, ripping his spear from the earth and raising one of his mighty arms above his head.

His form glowed and then erupted in white flame. A white Atman was a rarity among the Kha'atari, and they once called him Star-Crowned for it. The cold flame swirled in the palm of his raised hand and took the shape of a blazing spear of ten spans.

The canopy erupting in flames as a result of the pyromancer's spell did not phase him. The earth tremored and writhed. Spotting the silver-haired elf, Hanuman seized the Astra and threw it at him.
 
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Geladryx and anyone else near

Her horse whinied and pawed at the forest floor anxiously, sensing a much larger predator as it landed nearly on top of them. Only the years of training with the black mare had kept the horse from bolting. Monty gave the creature a soothing stroke down its sweaty neck and eased the beast forward just as the dragon blew some foul-looking gas up into the trees and out.

The lieutenant rode toward the dragon, keeping the horse barely under control.

"Yo, Geladria..Goliatharrea...Gel-ah-dryx y'said?" Amber eyes stared up and up and up as she approached, fiery hair shifting down her back. "Can we have a chat?" Nine levels of hell she did not get paid enough for this.
 
The orc warrior snarled his defiance in the face of whinging death, shafts hissing around him like vipers. He took a step forward just as the she-elf drew back her bow… and abruptly the earth crumbled beneath his foot. He fell headlong and hard, striking the ground so hard that the air rushed from his lungs.

Blinking away stars, head pounding, trying to catch his breath, Khurash lay at the bottom of the pit and stared up at the forest canopy above. He watched as sudden fire shot up to consume some trees, while a gaseous cloud floated up…. before abruptly descending back down. Far heavier than air.

Even as Rangers jumped screaming from the burning trees, chlorine gas blanketed the ground in a fog bank of death that rumbled slowly outward.

No… not this….

Still clutching his weapons, Khurash scrambled to his feet and managed to climb out of the pit just as the green-brown gas rushed toward him, Hanuman, Keeley, The Pilgrim, Kiros Rahnel, and Visha Sofka

A figure stumbled out of the gas, Khurash could not tell whether friend or foe. Her hacking cough twisted Khurash’s stomach with fear. Vomit spewed from her mouth, between her fingers. She stared at him with burning, tear-brimming eyes. Then a scream of agony rose from her raw and blistering throat.

A swift axe blow ended her suffering.

Nearby, the orc saw Keeley and her bow. He pointed his axe at her, then the approaching fog bank of chlorine. And all around them, the pyromancer’s fire spread.

“If you want to live… Run.”
 
Visha, despite sinking steadily into Varys's pitfall trap, always had time to watch a good fire burn. And it wasn't even her own blaze she was looking at! The tree she'd exploded into flame and all of the smaller secondaries that had sprung up around it went unappreciated (psst, don't worry, great maho can still see them!). She had her attention fixated elsewhere.

She pointed at Hanuman. Glanced around with a high-browed, wide-grinning glee as she said in general to those orcs and those ambushers around her (none of whom likely cared), "Do you see that? Does anybody else see that??"

He was on fire. White fire. How hot was white fire?? Could it burn your very soul? Did the sun itself pay homage to it? Was it good for cooking scrambled eggs? (She loved scrambled eggs!) She had so many questions! Another of which: who was the hooded hunchback man and why was he over there trying to steal that white flame from Hanuman before Visha could just that? Maybe Hanuman would like it better if she said she wanted to "borrow" his white fire instead of "steal" it, but the point was still the same!

Then Geladryx, the Emerald Death, the Great GREEN Dragon, somehow knew Visha's plight. He breathed out a thick rolling wave of poisonous gas, just for that little shit over there trying to steal Hanuman's flame! Okay, alright, maybe she was getting ahead of herself, and the hooded hunchback man was just another one of the pick-me-ups in the warband like Visha herself and she hadn't noticed before (wouldn't be the first time) and Geladryxie (don't tell him I call him that in secret, shh, it's all out of love and admiration, heh heh heh...heh...no seriously, shh) was breathing that gas to trap the rangers against a cloud of death and kill them.

"Yeah! We got 'em now!" Visha said, now up to her neck in the dirt Pitfall trap. Her arms and hands were on solid ground but, uh, it wasn't helping much.

If you want to live...Run.

The big orc. Well they were all big, but the big one. You know the one. And he was right! Visha had burned herself plenty of times with her own fire to know the dangers of one's own magic and stuff! This time "stuff" meant "leader," and their leader had just spewed poison gas that was gonna irk rangers and orcs (and pyromancers!) alike.

Problem. She was sinking. Sinking into this dirt trap. Still. NO SERIOUSLY WHO DID THIS?? When she found who put this trap out she was going to tie them up, make them breakfast but only cook one side of everything, and then force feed them that lopsided food. That would show them.

So she needed to get out of this trap--in which she was now up to her chin and hanging onto solid ground for dear freedom/life. There! That guy!

"HEY! YOU!" Visha called out to Kiros of all people, not quite knowing that he was on the other side of this engagement. "Help me out of here, will you? I'll owe you a favor! I promise! And you can see all of my fingers so you know I'm not bullshitting you!"

Ha ha, she used to do that all the time to her fellow students in the College, cross her fingers behind her back and all that. Bunch of losers.

Kiros Rahnel Hanuman Geladryx Khurash The Pilgrim Keeley Varys San'Seya
 
"I don't need two of you mother-henning me, Var. And how many times do I have to tell you it's just Keekee or Keeley. No Miss required," she quipped to Varys San'Seya as he dropped down next to her but she didn't snap the arrow, she handed it to her fellow elf. She'd known him since he'd joined the rangers. She'd connected with him quickly. He was easy to talk to. Joke around with. Even if she felt like he had a past he wasn't quite ready to share.

Perhaps they all did.

But then the ground shook. The air above them thickened with that gas. Jarrod scrambled down, his eyes blood-shot and watering, blood trickled from his nose. Her pointed-ears caught what the orc said. Lips parted and eyes narrowed on him. And for a moment, she wondered if the ranger he just struck down was more of a mercy killing than anything else.

She looked to Varys and took a half step to the tree she'd been by. Her palm pressed against the bark's surface even as its top was flaming. "I'm sorry," she murmured as the tree suddenly turned a dull grey color. Around her the stagnant and poisonous air would shift as wind whipped at her hair, skin, and clothing, pushing the fumes and fire up, up, up and out.

Luckily for any of the orcs nearby, her wind magic would also help them.
 
"What manner of misbegotten wretch are you?"

”I am an inconsequential messenger,” but Hanuman had left before he could have heard the words. The orc, likewise, appeared to ignore him. The only other one nearby was a young female. He felt a gentle pulse of acceptance towards Visha Sofka . Apparently his master had seen something promising in her.

The welcoming feeling was quickly replaced by one of warning, and he turned his abysmal hood to the side. A great green cloud was descending. He did not know what it was, but he was granted understanding that his master would not be able to assist him against such a threat.

He looked down at the beast, still trapped within the pit. Make demonstration.

”No need to die today, loyal friend,” said a frail voice as an equally frail and decrepit finger pointed at the creature. A whisp of orange flame, no larger than a strand of silk, swirled down to the warg and encircled it. The creature was frantically clawing at the walls, scrambling in vain until the glowing filament slipped through its flared nostrils.

It stilled, snorted once, then opened eyes that glowed with an orange light. It stepped back, crouched, and then ran straight up the pit wall. It left burning footprints in its wake, and it turned and raced towards its enemies immediately upon its escape.

The creature had been given an elemental gift of flame... but a fleeting one. Such power would burn through the lesser being in minutes, and would serve to animate it only a few moments beyond a natural death in the chlorine. Still, he hoped the demonstration would not go unnoticed.

He did not get the chance to see, for the roaring winds toppled the hunched figure and he fell into the dirt, scrambling feebly even as the sense of dread faded along with the green vapors.
 
The dragon’s words caught his attention, and a harrowing statement it was. Geladryx sounded as prideful as Itra Herself, and about as kind. This omimoua threat would be far from the first he had received from a greater being; as fearsome as the speaker, he doubted it would be the last.

The act that backed up the threat on the other hand was a sight quite fearsome indeed – a rolling cloud of green death emanating from beyond the trees from direction of the taunting voice. The unnatural and sickly green mist poured out along the ground, and again Heirahit gave no sign at it. Unwilling to place complete faith in an instrument of Her design, Kiros hastily wove an incantation of insight; without care for the particulars the answer might bring. He simply wished to know if it were arcane, and hoped well that it was.

Nothing had been returned from the spell, to his disappointment. While clearly unnatural, the ominous green cloud was determined to be neither arcane. Quite unlike the burst of flame he had just witnessed with his own eyes, and attention turned next to the red-haired one he had thought was the cause of that. He held concern that he'd have to contend with a foe under such pressing circumstance – until he heard her call out in a voice far from orcish.

“HEY! YOU!” Still, the words were far more unnerving than they ought to be. While he was used to allies clamouring for his attention during battle, they usually did so through the identifier ‘healer’ or ‘priest’, not ‘you’. It took a moment for him to incorrectly muse she had simply recognized him as the old man had done; this unwanted fame She had evidently caused would be an awkward adjustment to make.

Kiros advanced cautiously out of concern of the intentions of the one who beckoned him, and of further traps that might become a chlorinated grave should he stumble. With his quarterstaff held out with the base running atop the ground before him, he made his way careful and quick to the pyromancer that had beckoned him.

Upon making his approach, eyes confirmed what his ears had suspected; the pyromancer was just a young human girl. And to think, he was ready to split her skull. He really should have; but he too was unaware that she was of the opposing force, and could only mistakenly assume that she was on the same side as he. After all, he could not imagine any sane human offering aid to forces such as the ones he had been recruited to act against.

“A favour!? This is hardly– just rise and return yourself to battle!” Kiros responded in confusion at her offer, and realization that he had been wrong in assuming he’d been recognized. Visha Sofka seemed a strange one to be sure; but if anything, life in Elbion had familiarized him with the frequent oddity of mages. Perhaps pursuit of college magic simply had the effect of driving the mind towards madness. He had believed the same couldn’t be said of divine magic, until She had regrettably shown him otherwise.

He lowered his staff down into the pit, bracing the end against the opposite side. Instruction was given with silent gesture of am arm lowered towards Visha while he kept a firm hold of his staff in the other. Should she take his aid he would effortlessly help her out of the pit, pulling her up out of the muck with all his might as Keeley worked her unknown magic behind him. Heirahit did give sign of this event, but with only one hand on his staff Kiros could not receive it.

“Keep your wits with you now; you ought know to mind the traps!” Kiros chastised as he aided her out of the pit trap. While he himself had been just as reckless only a moment prior, neither his tone nor his statement gave any such acknowledgement. Shortly after, the effect of the elf’s magic would steal his attention and gaze; it was great relief that she had bid the threatening cloud away, and mistaken belief that he now had the magic of a pyromancer to aid him.
 
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