Completed As There Are Stars in the Sky

[Roki]

​

Along the Eastern border of the Valen Wilds:
Upon the lands of Ardolan March, governed by Duke Harmyhan.

​

They gathered beneath the cover of the stone pavilion en mass. Cloaked and hooded. Most of them clean. Robes made from fabrics that were near pristine. One by one and two by two. They trickled in to that space, marked by a strange seal wrought in bronze that hung at the peak of the archways. A seal that looked every bit an eye. Wide and open as the fire's light from within the pavilion danced along its polished surface and poured through the ringed bands.

The light. The golden red burn that licked up higher and higher and cast long, strange shadows out into the ember-lit night. It burned with a malignant menace. A red that turned purple and black. But only in flickers. Only in blinks and hisses.

Their voices. The voices of those gathered round. Were like so many little drops of rain. Pittering and pattering against the stone and bouncing out in a rush of rivers streamed from storms. A chatter that came close to chorus.

One voice rose above the rest.

"Hark, ye sightless! And rejoice!"

Their voices grew louder in exaltation. A sound that sounded near agony, so loud did they shriek.

"Tonight! On this night! Beneath the two moons that doth burn on high, we have one, most faithful! One most ready to show all their devotion!"

The crowds shuddered. "A Seer! A Sightless Seer!"

"Take them! Take the stars from them!"

"For the Stareater! For the Everwatcher!

Something shifted in the air. A cold pulse that saw the fire's glow turn blue and green for but a blink and the crowd hushed and trickled to silence.

From their vantage points, the Knights of Anathaeum could but watch the procession, and hear the words of the Speaker address the crowd tones like cold fire.

"Procure, the blades,"

---

Behind the established perimeter of Sworn Knights

Roki, leaned back against a tree, his staff rest against his shoulder.

He and Sosi were far from the front screen of Sworn, another tandem of squires acting auxiliary to their north and east, support for a second cell sworn ahead as they tried to snare this gathering of... cultists.

Even so, he could hear the voices of those lunatics on the wind. Like hushed whispers. Only every other word coming through. He focused on his breathing. Centered himself as he shut his eyes and tried to maintain his balance.

"It'll be alright," he said. To Sosi, but mostly to himself. "Syrs Dejan and Bebin took down a whole army of these bastards," he said, with forced bravado.

Damn it all. why were his knees shaking?

Faramund|Margot Triss|Sosi Gnax

 

[Sosi Gnax]

To say Sosi was excited would be an understatement. Gods only knew how long it had been since she'd had an opportunity to be off the monastery grounds at night. This was the time the spirits were the most active, and Sosi could feel them milling about as she kneeled next to Roki and peered into the trees.

"It'll be alright," Roki spoke. Sosi turned to sit on her bottom and looked at up the squire. "Yes yes! All right!" Sosi agreed, nodding her head rapidly causing her oversized hat to flop forward to cover her vision. "Syr Dejan an' Syr Bebin are strong! Much, much stronger than Sosi an' Roki!" Sosi readjusted her hat as she continued. "They defeated evil cultists an' so can we!" She turned back to Roki. "Sosi isn't a fighter, but she will do her best to help!" Sosi said fiercely.

The young goblin was briefly distracted as she heard something skitter past her feet. "Pyx?" Sosi felt the rat wriggle around in her pocket, then jump onto her shoulder. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a hazy shape out of the corner of her eye as she rubbed her cheek against her pet. But as she turned to look, it dissolved into nothingness. "Mmnmmn!" Sosi pouted.

She returned her attention to her fellow squire and noticed his knees trembling. "Oh!" Sosi exclaimed. She pulled her bag around in front of herself and dug around for a moment, before finding a small crystal bottle. Sosi held it out towards Roki in her small hands, the pearlescent mixture contained within shimmering in the moonlight. "Helps Roki be brave! And steady! Roki can't cast spells shaking like a leaf!" Sosi nudged her hands towards her companion insistently. "Tastes good! Like plums! Sosi promises!" She would watch carefully if Roki decided to take the potion. "One sip!" Sosi warned. "Very strong."

Sosi would return the bottle to her bag and then lean against the tree. She quietly hummed to herself as she waited for whatever would happen next.

 

[Faramund]

At the back of the congregation, hooded and cloaked and echoing the words of those around him, Syr Faramund of the Knights of Anathaeum played his part amicably. Bold, confident, he acted as if he belonged. No one questioned the way his words seemed to meander, or trail off. Nobody batted an eyelid at the way his robes appeared to bulge and bunch oddly around his shoulders and waist. Caught up in his act, and the energies radiating from deeper within the stone pavilion, the Cult of the Everwatcher went on as if he wasn't even there.

A blessing, Faramund thought, lowering his arms to his sides as he finished making yet another tasteless devotion to the Great Eyeball in the sky. It had taken some doing, procuring robes and a writ to match. It had taken even more to not get blood on the damnable things. Their former owner -the cultist Faramund found himself replacing- hadn't been too pleased to part with them; there had been a brief scuffle, in which the cultist had earned himself a broken nose and a black eye. And a slit throat.

The last had come after they had stripped him naked, but before they'd tossed his body in a ditch.

Fortunately, despite their rather violent means of procurement, the stains had washed out in time for the meeting. Smoothing down his skirts, Faramund used that knowledge to settle his mind as the procession ground forwards once more. Bright flames lit the inside of the stone pavilion with dancing light. Warm, cold, warm again, they painted the gathered cultists in soft colours. Oranges and creams and cloudy whites. Soft colours. Nothing sinister.

The sinister came in flashes. Purple and black. A heartbeat, gone.

Hiding as much of his face as he could, Faramund pretended not to feel the weight of responsibility weighing him down. Sweat beaded his forehead as he mulled about, one man among many. His dusker partner, another figure dressed in the hideous robes of the enemy, was a ghost by his side. Genderless, faceless, they hovered by his shoulder, like they were two friends deep in conversation. Faramund saw the dusker's mouth move, mimicking words that he struggled to read out of the corner of his eye.

Surrounding them, hemming the two knights in, the cultists rose in unison at the mention of the Seer.

Making a brief gesture to ward evil, Faramund turned with them. The hilts of his daggers pressed against his ribs as a cultists commanded his fellows to "procure the blades," whatever that meant. Most like, they were preparing to make a blood sacrifice. A slashed palm, perhaps. Or a prick of the thumb...

A slit throat.

Faramund's mind wandered to the ditch where they'd hidden the bodies of the cultists. Did they know? Did the Everwatcher know what fate had befallen his faithful? Did He even care? And if He did, why hadn't He intervened? Was He toying with them? Or did He just like the sight of blood?

Shooting his partner a sideways glance, Syr Faramund of the Dawn hoped for the best, and steeled himself for the worst.

Sosi Gnax Roki Margot Triss

 

[Roki]

Behind the established line, with Squires Sosi and Roki

Roki looked down at the little goblin. The way her hat flopped over, and the general manner in which she spoke. Made him laugh. Even if he knew he shouldn't. It wasn't the time. But she wasn't wrong.

"Ayy," he added, with a sure nod. "Some of the best," she fixed her hat, and his tusks poked out a little further with his smile. "Guess that's all we can do, ain't it, Sos," The squire said with a huff, his arms still crossed about him as he leaned against the tree.

It wasn't long before Pyx showed up, the cute little rodent skittering about and nuzzlin its master. His wide yellow eyes couldn't help but grow wider as Sosi pouted. He cleared his throat, and looked away.

They were on a mission, damn it. Cultists en mass. Lives on the line. Lives on the line. His and Sosi's. The Sworn. The other squires off to the east too. Suppose being nervous didn't help win the day any more. Suppose remembering who and what they fought for.

Oh!

"Hmm?" Roki looked down at the petite squire, saw her digging through her bag, and pulled out a fine bottle that shined bright and caught the light of the stars. "One sip, huh?" he asked, and took up the potion, uncorked it, sniffed it.

It smelled very strong. Brought a tear to his eyes. He laughed, a choked breath.

"Damn Sosi, you don't mess around," he said, shook his head, and raised the bottle to her in salute. Took a swig. Nearly spat it out once the liquid death-fire touch his tongue, his golden eyes wide, his cheeks puffed out. He pulled it away quick and gave Sosi back her poison. Drank it down and slapped his knee as he hunched over and coughed. "Eldyr's Nuts, that shit is strong," he wheezed. Near laughed.

Cleared his throat. Straightened up and caught his breath. Mouth still numb and tingly. "Thanks, Sosi," he said. It was a small distraction. But it helped him feel all the steadier.

---

Amidst the cultists, approaching the Pavilion

In the crowd, Syr Breklinn Nodded to Syr Faramund. "Watch, for there is much to be learned," she said in a tone full of false reverence. Her eyes hard beneath the shade of her cowl, she wove through the crowd. Her poleaxe had been hidden on their approach. In the treeline, but her side-sword was cloaked by the flowing white robes of the Sightless.

Voices murmured and whispered their madness, that did wash across the throng of believers gathered there that eve. "Let their eyes feed the Watcher! Let their eyes bring light to the depths!"

As the two knights grew closer to the pavilion, the crackle of the bonfire grew louder. The flames great tongue tall and long and a searing golden white that spat out angry embers, high into the air as so many around wept fat tears of joy.

One man stood taller than the rest, his robes marked by the blue sigils of a singular eye. He raised a hand, and in that hand shined the long tapered edge, that gleamed with hunger.

"My brothers and sisters!" the crowd's murmurings and cries came to quiet. "On this hallowed night, beneath the twin moons and the stars that govern our most precious gifts, we offer up gifts, to the Everwatcher!"

A young man, bound in ropes, was brought toward the fire. His face grim and set. Prepared, until his eye caught the glitter of the dagger's edge. The Priest had motioned with one hand, and two faithful stepped forth, grabbed the boy by the arms and rested them on a tone alter, raised and centered before the great tongue of fire.

"Rejoice, rejoice!" the priest went on. "For there is one so pwoerful to give gifts to your great lord."

The two faithful tied the young man in. And the Priest hovered over him, knife in hand. "Now, the blades shall be taken, and spirit set free!" Some heard but most just watched as the youth came to rest upon the alter, eyes heavy lidded, posture slacked despite the finery of his robes.

---

'
With the Squires, most was quiet, save the sound of something stirring in the bushes.

Roki went wide eyed, and turned to see what had caused the noise, grabbing up his staff, and holding it out with some margin of menace.

"Psst," he whispered to Sosi. "You hear that?"

The crunch of leaves. The snap of branch. It moved with the gate of a person.

---

Faramund Sosi Gnax Margot Triss

 

[Margot Triss]

This was a time of action, of grim determination. It wasn't seeking out a monster to eradicate, it was in a way, but this was much much bigger. Margot had her hair up in a bun, long blonde locks tucked away to keep her sight unburdened. Blue eyes were focused, her demeanor reflective of their situation. No, there was no happy-go-lucky smiles, no teasing, no excitable energy. Faramund was down there, and she was worried. She was worried about everyone, but she was fond of the gruff man. She didn't like the thought of him, or Syr Brekklin in harms way.

Margot had spent a good chunk of preparation time making individual medkits, handing them out to the squires, making sure that if she couldn't help them, that they weren't completely without aid. A sense of responsibility hung heavy on her shoulders, and it would be a long time before she would be able to put that weight down. This was big, this was bad, this needed to end.

With a small sigh, Margot made her way to the edge of the treeline. Soon, they would intervene. The ritual, the dark twisted thing it was, would come to an end. She wasn't the only knight stirring, others were restless, waiting for their chance. She could see the torches now, could hear the chanting of the cultists. It was nearly time, and she had to be ready. "Please keep my family safe." She whispered it to herself, sending it out to any gods that may be listening.

 

[Faramund]

The way forward was blocked. Standing amidst the flock, part of yet very much apart, Syr Faramund tried to find a way to get closer to the raised dais upon which the sacrifice was to be offered up. In the heart of the pavilion, the Chosen writhed, went still. To Faramund's untrained eye, the sacrifice did not appear all that fearful. He looked docile, like an ox awaiting its execution, oblivious of the man and his axe hovering just out of view.

He remained calm even as they wrestled him onto the stone altar, binding hands and feet so as to assure no slip-ups. No second chances.

'An offering has been made,' Faramund heard the cultist next to him recite. 'And an offering thy Lord shall receive.' Closing his eyes, the cultist knelt to pay obeisance to the Everwatcher. Leaving him to it, Faramund slipped deeper into the crowd. Syr Breklinn had moved off already, and was likely at the foot of dais by now, natural that she was.

Too big to hide, too blundering to contemplate such, Faramund did his best not to step on any toes. Men and woman bowed their heads as he passed, breaking off mid-conversation to pay respects to the infidel in their midst. Battling his nerves, the dawnling nodded back.

Watching from a shadowed alcove, the Seer smiled to himself as the trespassers grew closer. The sacrifice was proceeding well. His subordinate, a man of great ambition and talent, had brought forth the boy, bound him thus. The sheep -those naïve, bleating fools filling the green outside, and clogging the entrances- appeared to be thoroughly caught up in the show.

And what a show it was! The pavilion fires dipped and danced, burning fiercely in their bowls. Over by the altar, the priest leading the procession had pulled back the sacrifice's robes, exposing his chest to the mage-light. The ritual dagger gleamed where he held it, poised, above flesh ripe for the cutting. 'Brothers!' The priest called out, glancing to and fro. 'Sisters! Pay heed now! Pay heed! For this sacrifice we offer up to our Lord, the Everwatcher, that he may give gifts in return!'

Drawing to a halt at the dais's foot, Syr Faramund averted his gaze as the priest made ready to carve up the boy. 'Don't turn away!' Syr Breklinn hissed from where she knelt by his side. 'Look now! Look! Before they grow wise to our trickery.' Turning back, Syr Faramund watched as the blade began to lower. The sacrifice, as calm as could be, watched its descent fixatedly. A madness burned in his eyes, one Faramund struggled to come to terms with.

Quiet as the grave, the loyal masses watched with bated breath as the blade touched the boy's abdomen. Blood beaded around the knife's glistening point, flowed freely to stain the boy's robes a dark crimson. 'Hold!' A voice called from the gloom beyond the altar.

Holding his breath, Faramund's eyes widened as a figure strode onto the dais, hood worn low, arms folded into billowing sleeve. 'That's him,' the big knight spoke aloud, a sudden outburst of voices echoing his words. 'That's the bloody Seer!' Faramund told Breklinn, recognition overcoming the disgust he felt for what was happening. Gritting her teeth, Breklinn shot him a sideways glance.

'I know,' she grimaced, noting the scarred flesh beneath the hood, and the obsidian eye swivelling in its empty socket. 'I know.'

Margot Triss Roki Sosi Gnax

 

[Sosi Gnax]

Sosi looked up as Roki laughed, her confusion clearly painted across her face. Had somebody told a joke? Did she say something funny without realizing it? Was Roki laughing at her?! No... That couldn't be it. Roki was her friend! She was sure of it! Moments after deciding to give Roki the benefit of the doubt, she was back to humming, completely forgetting what she had been worried about.

Sosi let loose a frightened squeak when a branch suddenly snapped nearby. She dove behind Roki, hugging herself to him tightly as she hastily began mumbling incantations. With all of her bravado gone, Sosi shook nervously, trying to prevent herself from going into a full blown panic.

As her chanting continued, tiny pinpricks of light materialized before them, swirling around in a cloud before coalescing into a small ball. Sosi peered around Roki fearfully as the two squires were bathed in a dim, ethereal light.

Her golden eyes grew large with excitement as a familiar figure stepped out from the trees. "Miss Margot!" Sosi exclaimed joyfully, running over to hug her around the waist. "Are you gonna help Sosi and Roki fight the bad guys?"

Margot Triss Roki Faramund

 

[Roki]

Like a wave come over them, the crowd did hush. Whispers and excitements snuffed out. The warmth of voices, hot with fervor, chilled, until only cold silence was left in its wake.

The Seer stood above the young man, who so readily laid upon the altar of change. The altar of sacrifice. Of reward. His obsidian eye, singular, for the other lay behind black curtained cloth, dart and slid and moved within the socket of the Seer's skull.

It stopped on Faramund.

"Sightless," the Seer's voice came like the cold crack of ice. Sharp, crisp, and clear. "See now!" he cried, and swept his hand out, toward the young man who still laid so ready upon the alter before them and the wicked fire. "With what doubtless devotion this blind one faces the unknown?!"

The crowd stirred. Some shouted. Some cheered. Most just shuffled and bumped with anxiety.

"His example shall be recorded in the stars!" the Half-Veiled Seer called out. "There in the light they shine upon us, which our own eyes doth drink in!"

The crowd stirred and bubbled. Whipped into a roil and wash of movement. Clumsy and cruel with their excitement. They thrashed. Bone knocked against bone. Some fell. Some trampled.

"An example!"

"Light given!"

"In the stars!"

Their ecstasy shuddered through the writhing mass.

The obsidian eye of the Half-Veiled Seer snapped up, a pale, soft light reflected there upon it. A wide, hungry grin showing their teeth. "But it would seem, dear wanting Sightless, that there are those amidst our ranks that would rob us of this light,"

Gasps. Murmurs. Doubts.

"No!"

"The truly blind!"

"Who?!"

There was an anger in their movements. A want for violence. The Half-Veiled Seer sheathed their grin, and lifted a long and lone finger. Pointed to the tree line. "There," he said. Voice as cold and dead as stone. "Amidst the wylds," he croaked. "There! They harbor a false light that would lead us astray!"

Wails. Shouts. Weeping.

"Charlatans!"

"Blasphemers!"

A pale light glowed against the darkness of the tree line. And the Half-Veiled Seer showed their teeth once more. "Go, ye Sightless, and claim their light, for the Everwatcher,"

---

Roki swelled up with breath, his eyes, used to darkness, watched the shrubbery as Sosi cowered behind him. His mind too focused on the potential threat before him to think about the light the little medium conjured forward.

His hands re-gripped his weapon as he lowered into his stance, thinking on how to best use the long sturdy shaft of rune-carved elm-wood in this terrain. It was when he saw the light of Sosi's spell traced along the bands of willowsteel, worked along the weapon, that his mind realized something.

Miss Margot! Sosi called out, and rushed forward.

Roki's eyes darted toward the direction of the gathering. Toward the flame. It had grown quiet.

The yips and howls of mad souls echoed through the darkened woods. "Sosi!" Roki called out, his eyes on the feint wisp that hovered so dutifully about them. "Put out the ligh!" he urged, and looked to Syr Margot. "They are coming!" he was afraid. It was clear in his wide golden eyes. "We should move, right?"

The sounds of the Sightless grew louder as they drew nearer.
​

---

Faramund Sosi Gnax Margot Triss ​

 

[Faramund]

Faramund felt a shiver go through the crowd as the Seer made to address them. Kneeling at the foot of the altar, her head bowed, Syr Breklinn of the Dusk watched as the man they had come to capture began his sermon. Copying the cultists surrounding her, the knight hummed and hawed as he spoke. Of devotion, yes, and "examples written in the Stars".

The whole sordid affair made her sick to her stomach. How desperate did one have to be to treat this fool's mad ranting as gospel? How much ambition did a man need before he decided to forsake the true gods in favour of a false idol like the Everwatcher?

Standing beside her, his head hung low, Syr Faramund pondered the same as the blind Seer held up a hand for silence.

But it would seem, dear wanting Sightless, that there are those amidst our ranks that would rob us of this light,

Raising his eyes, Faramund felt the blood drain from his face. He knows, the knight thought, slipping a hand into his borrowed robes. The Seer had looked straight at him, after all. Blind as he was, sick as his twisted mind had become, the Seer had sniffed out the strangers in their midst like a bloodhound scenting deer.

Or had he?

Pointing, the Seer guided his flock's attention to the trees outside the pavilion. It was dark, there, in the place beyond the firelight. Too dark for the naked eye to see clearly. But see the Seer did and, though he kept quiet, Faramund knew the bastard saw true.

Standing now, Syr Breklinn placed a gentle hand on her counterpart's arm, gave it a squeeze. 'Faramund?' she whispered, her voice ripped away by the collective howl of the cultists. 'We have to do something.' Glancing around, the knight concurred with a nod.

It was then the Sightless began to pour from the pavilion. Dragging his feet, Fara drew Syr Breklinn close as the tide flowed around the altar to smash itself against him. Screaming, shouting in rage, the Sightless no more saw Fara as they did the knights hidden in the woods.

Shoving the stragglers aside, the dawnling pushed back the way they had come. 'Now's our chance,' he told Breklinn, throwing aside his robes as the last of the cultists bulled on by. 'Something wrong, dear Sightless?' the Seer asked, peering down at them from his place by the altar.

Wordlessly, the two knights approached the altar. Syr Breklinn drew her sword.

'Oh! What's this? Has the Order come to pay us a visit?' With a click of his fingers, the light in the room began to flicker, darkening ever so slightly as it did. 'I thought you two looked a touch... odd,' he grinned, obsidian eye flashing. 'And now I know why!' Clapping his hands together, the Seer took a step forward.

'Oh, how it will please my master to receive so many sacrifices,' he crowed, grinning wildly. The obsidian eye swivelled as the Seer started to caper. It came to rest on Faramund. 'Friends, foes, all are welcome,' a voice hissed to him from the shadows of his mind.

Slipping a dagger from its sheathe, Faramund charged as the Seer called his guards to arms.

Roki Sosi Gnax Margot Triss

 

[Margot Triss]

Margot gave a soft gasp as Sosi clung to her, normally she would have smiled and given her the attention she deserved but her eyes were stricken with fear. She grasped Sosi firmly and looked down at her. "Sosi, I need you to run back to the line, right now." She urgently turned her around and gave her a light push. "Please, Sosi."

The clamor was growing louder and her head snapped to Roki. "Keep her safe. Warn any you come across. I'll cover you." She drew her slender, sliver sword. She slide her hand along the blade, a short chant leaving her lips. It began to glow like the sun and she dashed forward into the trees.

She hoped the two would listen, but she was like them once. She knew she would run right into the enemy, but it would keep them just a little more safe, and Syr Faramund and Syr Brekklin were down there alone. Now was the time.

She charged right into the tide that was meant to crush them, sword meeting flesh in a wicked dance of blood and bone. She wouldn't last alone, but her brothers and sisters would soon join the fight.

 

[Sosi Gnax]

Sosi pouted sourly as she clung to Margot. Where were her hugs? Her kisses? Heck, Sosi would've even settled for a pat on the head. But the Knight seemed to have more pressing matters on her mind, and Sosi let out a soft squeak as Margot spun her around.

"Miss Margot wants Sosi to run away?" Sosi asked, tilting her head back to look up at the Knight with confusion. "Why? Sosi wants to help fight the bad guys! Roki an' Miss Margot an' Sosi can beat them all up together! The bad guys don't stand a chance!" She continued to jabber on animatedly as Margot gave her a gentle push.

Sosi halted mid sentence and the frown returned to her lips. "Why won't you let Sosi help?!" the small goblin demanded. She turned back to face the knight, and her expression instantly shifted.

She wasn't the brightest creature, but Sosi could still tell that something was wrong. Margot was... upset? No that wasn't quite right... Sacred? Yes! That was it! And if a strong, courageous woman like Margot was frightened, well then something must seriously be wrong.

Sosi's eye grew wide as saucers and her blood ran cold. She tried to put on a brave face, finally submitting to Margot's pleas, and nodded. "Okay... Sosi will run." The small goblin picked her staff up off the ground. She gripped it tightly as she sprinted away from the clamor of battle as fast as her little legs could carry her.

Roki Margot Triss Faramund

 

[Roki]

In the dark of the woods

As moths to the flame, the droves of Sightless swarmed toward the light that had shone so bright. Limbs frantic as their bodies flew forward, through the woods in droves. Glee bright across their cheshire grins.

Roki looked to Sosi, looked to Margot. Gave a nod as the young pursuant drew her blade, and let it shine like the day's sun.

The squires eyes were wide and full of the site. Of Syr Margot Triss, Pursuant of Life as she struck into the darkness of the woods like a star that traced across the night sky.

A bright light that burned against a sea of shadow.

Rustles and snaps pulled the squires attention. He had heard Sosi's small voice, but so lost in the moment, he had not seen her dart away.

"Shit," he hissed to himself, and ran after the twigs and branches that still shook, the weight of his staff heavy in his hand.

---

Beneath the ceremonial tholos

The guards hacked at Brekklin, who drew long knife and cruel hammer from the folds of her robes. She bat away one attack, took the other against her chest where the longsword rattled against wellformed plate.

The dusker grinned and caved one man's head in with her hammer blow, bulled forward to the next and thrust with her knife which clattered against guard.

She grunt as the surviving guard stepped off and back, his sword free of her knife, its edge cut at her wrist , sliced the leather of her gloves. Drew blood.

The young man upon the slab of stone was wide eyed. Still still.

"A test," he said. "A test of my devotion, to the depths," he smiled wide. "Yes, yes I can see it,'

The Seer grinned wide, two long pointed stilettos within each hand. "Yes, you can see it," he cooed as two guards rushed toward Faramund. "His design, mapped there in the stars," the obsidian eye scrawled from the young man on the plinth, to Faramund, to Brekklin, to the light that burned bright within the shadows of the woods. "How it will give us light to stave off the drowning darkness to come,"

He rose the ceremonial daggers upward. The fire light, morphed to blue and green and purple in licks and wicks and twists of its tongues, danced along the edge of each tool.

The guards circled around Faramund. Armored and armed with castle forged steel. Stances disciplined. These men were not like the others.

---

On the trail of Sosi

Something hard would impede the little goblin's path. Made of muscle and bone.

"Ho," came a voice. "What's this then?" a wide grin spread wide across a haggard face. Black holes where eyes were supposed to be. Dark scabs and angry pustules there about the marred flesh.

A long knife in one hand.

The Sightless man laughed. "You've got yer eyes still don't you," he crept toward Sosi, cut the air before him blindly. Once, stabbed the second cut. "I can smell them in your skull," he said hungrily, and swiped again.

---

Faramund Margot Triss Sosi Gnax

 

[Faramund]

The two guards were not like the others, but The Doppler knew them all the same. Clad from head to toe in burnished plate, and clutching swords made for foreign hands, the two men stood before The Doppler -or else Faramund- in an attempt to bar his path. They did not move to strike or parry as the two knights would have done had the roles been reversed. Instead they simply waited.

For the dawnling. For the Seer to bring his twin stilettos down in magnificent display. For the sacrifice to welcome his death with open arms, though, of course that was impossible. His arms were bound, after all. His fate sealed. And yet still they waited, even as Breklinn killed one man and took her chances with another. They waited.

Until they didn't.

Circling around the dawnling, the two warriors began to flourish their blades as if to fool him into making a mistake. Pick one and rush them, The Doppler thought. Pick one and rush them, decided Faramund, leaping into action, daggers gleaming as he struck out at the guard to his left. A feint to lure the one on his right.

Twisting, cat-quick, Faramund swept his assailant's sword aside with both daggers, then, brought his left-hand dagger about in a vicious slice aimed at the man's throat. The aventail thwarted his cut, but not the thrust that followed from his right.

Impact jarred up his arm as steel skewered flesh and bone. Brushing past the guard, Faramund dragged him backwards, away from the second. Twisting his dagger free, he threw the dying man aside as the other rushed him.

Weapons collided as Faramund went for the cross-parry. The guard grunted as he shoved Faramund back with his freehand, followed up with a swift down-cut that struck the knight on his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises. Slipping aside, Faramund jabbed and weaved, drove his dagger up under an exposed armpit to bury it hilt-deep in the guard's ribs.

Grunting, he collapsed forwards onto Faramund. His aventail fell away from his face to reveal... a smile.

'Too... late...' The guard tried to speak, only to expire a moment later. Then it hit him.

'Breklinn!' Faramund shouted. 'Get him! Stop him!' Gasping, the dusker turned to gaze at the Seer where he stood atop the altar to his God. He was smiling. So, too, was the sacrifice.

Watching in mute horror, the two knights witnessed the ceremonial daggers plunge downwards to impale heart and liver. Faramund heard Breklinn utter a small curse. Too late! A voice laughed at him from somewhere within his own mind.

What a shame. Whatever will you do now?

Sosi Gnax Margot Triss Roki

 

[Dal]

Cloaks of black loomed into the far off scene, blades drawn that gleamed pierced the pitch of night punctuating their figures, the illumination the pursuant of life did give rise to revealing their threats to cut to stab. The eastern cell of squires readied themselves for the combat to come. A drawstring pulled back, a prayer made, a firming of the feet as distance was measured. The cloaks made their shuddering approach as footfall was made and impending danger secured measure by measure.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Dal didn't look to his comrade squire. There was nothing to do but to put the foe down. For him to release arrows once distance had been closed. They had made small talk the two of them, Jacqueline, red of hair and long of elven stride, armed with longbow that was resting while Dal's dense crossbow lay taut and potent within his grip. Small talk Dal indulged in, even as he did not know how to facilitate it with comfort. They had exchanged pleasantries enough to know the other existed, but Dal had remained quiet. Quiet, almost in respect for the solemn moment of combat to come. Not in trepidation as Jacqueline might suspect.

Not yet.

Closer. Closer.

Elven eyes measured the distance clearly, her eyes seeing in colour what Dal only saw as shadowy figures moving approach. She saw with clarity. Dal saw nothing but the gloom that would become flattened by their efforts. Jacqueline, armed in scaled ivy green armour, peered out and saw the daggers, saw the eyes that seemed to stare her down as she met their gaze. She measured the distance by instinct. Dal, by calculation of how tall the figures were upon the horizon. Ever heightening as they became more and more real upon the scene, ever more pressing of the threat that must be quashed.

“Five seconds to loose,” Jacqueline intoned as she readied and arrow in fluid motion.

Dal's finger curled.

“I know,” he replied, and punctured the air with a bolt in unison with his elven comrade, his bolt dense and heavy, enough to slay a charging boar and make it crumple to the earth, her arrows long and barbed, released far quicker than Dal's own efforts.

The cultists kept pace, and streamed around the comrades that shuddered as arrow and bolt interrupted them. Dal and Jacqueline were different breeds of archers, Dal's bolts slower to release yet more powerful, driving the enemy to the ground as the foe was shocked, body and mind, by the injection of steel to their frame, killing near instantly. Jacqueline's arrows were a flurry of piercing shots, striking true to shoulder and leg, slowing the advance as cultist fell disabled.

The cultists surged and closed distance, arrows peppering the scene with an accuracy that was well drilled, the pair making good work of the foe. Yet, it could not hope to fell them all. Merely excuse some of the dedicated to the Everwatcher to the grave before they might meet it in melee.

Crossbow swiftly slung and longbow sequestered, steel was drawn in tandem from the cell as the river of cowls stepped into measure. Dal stepped up, and smashed down upon the dagger that threw out to enter his trunk. A smash of a pommel to the face that was shrouded in shadow. The crunch was immensely satisfying to the half orc as he wheeled to the three next that surged, the combat embroiled now, daggers meeting longsword, pivots expertly made, cloaked figures crumpling as they met their match, steel grazing armour and steel meeting flesh.

“You fall all the same!” Dal brayed as he raised his blade in service to his Order as his foes surged, the adrenaline blending with discipline and spite to guard him from the cuts rendered upon him.

Faramund Margot Triss Sosi Gnax Roki

 

[Roki]

Where the blades had pierced, did blood pool in dark sanguinity. The young man, a noble's son, a Pinkrose, lay upon the stone altar with his eyes wide, and a wicked grin split across his face. Life was gone from his form, and as the brave knights fought on, the Seer grinned wide and, and bowed his head to the young scion of house Pinkrose.

The Scion's body convulsed. Their form seemed to crack and break, and the happy blood that poured from their wound, slicked across his pallid flesh.

The twin daggers, stuck into his flesh, seemed to melt into the young nobleman's flesh. Seemed to spread into that same gore that slowly coated him like a second skin.

Those about the field swarmed the Squire Dal, and those knights he burst from the brush with. Like a wave of gangly flesh, the unarmored fanatics through themselves forward. No matter how many his greatsword felled, more came, with a shrieking fervor.

A flash of fire from a Dawnling knight washed across a throng to Dal's left flank. The whispers of a cant behind the stout half/orc, as Syr Dethinuan summoned the strength of the wylds to their aid. The throng before them was twenty thick.

Where Syr Margot ran quick, and her blade did fell foes, the number of her enemies. Five strong, threatened to overwhelm her. Grasped at her limbs and clamored in their lunacy.

"Your eyes! The stars in your eyes!"

"We will have them!"

"Gifts for the Stareater!"

For every four club and crooked dagger those of Anathaeum did face, they would find a cursed blade there among their foe. Weapons that looked to have black teeth along their edges, and flesh about their hilts. Weapons that looked like they were pulled for foul beast's spine, and weapons that would cause harm to them, even if they managed to deflect them.

Field reports prior to the mission made mention of such cursed tools, used by the Sightless. Magicks guided by the heavens, by divine blessing , the light of life, or celestial might, could negate their effect.

---

On the Trail of Sosi

The crazed man swiped his long knife at the little goblin squire, once, twice, thrice. Each time, the blade came closer, and his grin grew madder.

A wind blast came from the woods, and buffeted the madman. Knocked him a step back, and had him cover himself up, his dagger held out in feeble threat.

"Sosi!" Roki called out, as he ran to the little witch's side. "Are you alright?"

A horrid cry comes from behind him. The madman lungest toward him. Roki's golden eyes go large, and he tries to knock the man back with a swipe of his staff, but the bull charge keeps on. Knocks into Roki.

With happy dagger, the madman stabs at the young orc. The crude blade slices open his side, and Roki grunts, twists. Catches the mans dagger hand under his arm and tries to wrench the weapon free with a twist, but the two are locked in a struggle.

Faramund Dal Sosi Gnax Margot Triss

 

[Margot Triss]

Margot's blade swung in easy arcs as she felled the unprotected flesh of her foes. She was outnumbered, but she knew she had to hold them off as long as possible. She wanted no harm to befall the squires that were so precious to her.

Sweat and blood covered her, she was close to being overwhelmed. A thrust from her blade, her foot on slick ground, the medic soon lost her balance. Her blade, suncatcher fell the ground, it's light dimming instantly.

Her head cracked against the earth, her vision faltered. Margot was overwhelmed and the battle surged forward.

 

[Dal]

Sans plate mail, Dal's fighting style was free and limber. His length of his blade was used to devastating effect, slicing the meat of the problems that assailed him. His jaw fixed, his eyes firmed, his blade rushed to end the foes that sought to overwhelm and shiv. As Dals' cuts landed between the insistent foes, quick darting arms sought with wicked sharpness to make him bleed in the space between death's deliverance. These injections of cold knives were locked in vulnerable place by mechanical advantage of footwork, measure and conditioned mind and muscle, torn apart, cast to the wind of emergent combat. Dal continued to move with liberties of measure to keep himself from being overwhelmed, he had the space to position himself to best effect. Still, he did not overextend his blade in one bold vanquishing movement, slashing cuts against these unarmoured fools was the order of the day.

No armour to delve into. No well trained discipline in their efforts. Just weakness to punish.

One grew too near, and Dal responded with a quick sidestep while locking the arm in place, Dal's rondel removed and plunged into black cloth, a yelp of pain then silence as the body was discarded and another foe acquired, the rondel replaced, the longsword gleaming red from bloody arc.

Dal's left ear twitched as rushing footfall from behind was perceived, the trait of the orcish nature within him revealing itself in the gloom. He grinned as he made a total step in rotation, steel colliding with sparks as he did so. The longsword pivoted along the binding of steel, and muscle overpowered the lithe black cloth clad deluded.

“Fall,” Dal stated, and so it was that the cultist fell to their knees as pressure mounted and the longsword cut deep into shoulder joint. With left hand the rondel punched out to throat and once again was replaced as if the operation was second nature. A coup de grace well trained and executed punctually had ended many during Dal's career.

His foray into the realms of the knights was just another ground to execute his killing arts, especially against such lightly armoured ill trained would be brigands of eyes. He trusted the others would find their purchase in this combat. He knew Knights as a whole to be some of the best fighting forces out there. He blinked as he witnessed his comrades delivering their justice in surges of violence.

Good, he thought, his heartrate steady, the sweat upon his brow barely formed from his executions. They can keep up.

The thought seemed to bring about a calamity. Margot fell.

Dal was instant in his response, bounding between knives that jutted and made little purchase against his breastplate.

Plate would be best for this shock work. Dal ruminated as he made pivoting step between blades, dodging in the same way that he had done countless times upon his obstacle course. He slashed at the backs of those who loomed at Margot's body, like vipers they were about to deliver a coup de grace. No quarter, Dal compounded as longsword made them scatter like carrion pursuing birds.

He planted foot nearby to Margot's dazed head and held aloft blade in defiance of the circumstance.

Dal gritted teeth and summoned his voice to serve in violent bray which rose in volume as the low tone dissuaded those who pursued from surging forward. The growl lasted long moments as he held the steel within his hand's point in the center, his body twisting to deliver a cleave to the next who moved forward.

“Not done yet,” Dal intoned to Margot and his foes alike yet. He stood guard over the fallen, and hoped he had bought her enough time to recover. If not, well, this is where his feet would orbit, his objective to defend his comrade, his swordplay trained to keep his space clear as recovery made it's slow purchase to Margot's frame.

Even if I could perform healing magic, they would jump at the chance. Promising violence is the best I've got for now as she recovers.

If she recovers in time to help further.

Faramund Margot Triss Sosi Gnax Roki

 

[Margot Triss]

A groan left the cracked and bloodied lips of the medic, her eyes still shut tight as she waited the grasp of death that would soon rain down upon her. It didn't come, blade did not pierce her flesh.

The low voice of Dal covered her like a shield, brought her to awareness. He was there, he was helping the fallen doe eyed girl. She was no longer alone.

With shaky breath, she slowly opened her eyes. Her face was caked in blood, sweat and dirt as she looked to the man that had Cole to her aid. No, she wasn't done yet.

First she got to her knees, her palms planted firmly to the ground. She was still dizzy, but it started to slowly pass. From her knees to balancing on her heels, her hands now searching for her weapon.

Suncatcher graced her fingertips and she grasped the hilt firmly. Finally, she was able to stand. With her back to Dal, her sword now ablaze once more with the light of the sun, she danced with her savior. Bones, and sinew, and flesh tearing beneath the cold of her steel, her teeth gritted in determination. They would survive this.

Dal

 

[Dal]

Good, she rouses.

More cuts then.

Dal ceased to use his voice as a shield and instead anticipated a surge of motion from one of the cultists.

Boar's tusk it is.

Dal hid the chosen stance with a small flourish, raising the blade to his right shoulder and then arcing the blade over his head to his left hip, blade pointed as a stake might in the ground. Designed against cavalry charges, or spearman, it made short work when the blade thrust out to pierce the veiled face that approached and fell limp. Dal yanked the blade aside, throwing the victim of the proven drill executed. Onto the next. The blade was well balanced and suited to the task of such heavy lifting, especially when driven by the half-orc's frame.

More deluded words fell on deaf ears, they brought no fear to the squire's heart. He had heard much worse from far more proficient wielders of knives. Still, their insistence of preaching the words of their master, their wants, he had nothing but a low contempt for their ill pursuit.

He stayed close as he could to Margot's own efforts, being careful to watch his backswing. This skirmish allowed for some liberties with the blade, but working in so close a proximity with another member of the Anathaeum made him wary of hurling his steel around. Such an action was a costly matter on endurance. Dal was methodical and efficent, all the more intimidating to a foe that had little regard for it's own well being. Their number was dwindling, yet their fervour showed no sign of abating for their loss.

“Almost through this sorry lot,” Dal stated, “But don't let up,” he breathed as he rolled his shoulder to levy a staggered attack against one that shirked his cuts with swift movement. His blade was anticipated poorly, a wild riposte chambered against a blade that was feigned, thus denying the tension that was required to knock the blade away. The danger was getting too close, and with the rising staggered attack the leg of his foe was severed, rendering the black cloak a futile display.

A cultist breathed some arcane words, words that Dal understood in new found study to mean something to do with fire. He measured the distance between them and found himself wanting. Even with firm bounding step, he would not close it in time.

No recourse but to-

The crossbow at his back was not loaded.

The rondel at his belt was not designed for throwing.

Neither was his sword.

Yet with one mighty hurl was the longsword propelled, gleaming tip tunnelling through the magic user's chest as knees were fallen upon, the spell exasperated into nothingness. The sword a defiant flag against what spellcraft was being summoned against him.

Dal drew out rondel and light hammer from his belt, and felt the weight of them in his hands. A wider range of movement was allowed for lack of being clad in the steel. Yet there was less distance between him and those damnable knives that raced out to meet vulnerabilities. A slamming of the flat headed weapon here, a piercing cut to vitals there, and Dal moved in quick pace to keep within distance of Margot.

The sword would have to wait until things cooled or an opening was provided. The blade lodged heavy in the dead spell user, the blade still wobbling from such a throw.

Margot Triss

 

[Margot Triss]

Margot and Dal danced around each other, blades arcing with fueled ferocity. Her limbs ached, but she had Dal at her back, she must not falter again. Wave after wave of the crazed crashed against them, a relentless sea of flesh.

They were slowly quelling the tide, but they were still threatened to be overrun. Dal lost his sword, she could see it stuck straight up from the corpse her had thrown it at. Still, she swung, her blade a shining beacon to the other knights, the night less dark because of it.


"Keep pushing Dal, we can do this." Margot spoke through clenched teeth, sword biting into flesh once more. Her thoughts flitted to the others, she hopes Sosi had made it to the larger company, and that Roki was safe.

Dal

 

[Dal]

With hammerblow and knife strike did Dal engage in closer measure to his foes, operating in tight proximity to the enemy that was becoming more evasive as they bundled their forces together to form a blackened curtain around their position. Still, their numbers were dwindling, yet not their willingness to fight on. Their cause and indoctrination gave them morale beyond their own self preservation.

The use of the hammer by Dal was brutal in simplicity, his powerful arms shocking the weapons out of hands while the rondel stabbed throats that held portents of the Everwatcher. The armour that Dal wore served him well, the gestures that would bypass them were telegraphed by the lightly armour foe, and dissuaded with downward strokes of the rondel and upward swings of the hammer.

Now a sweat had developed across Dal's brow as momentum built with each minor victory over the foe in such close ranges. He turned his body to avoid wide arcing slashes from jagged weapons, his footwork used to pivoting to gain power with his blade, not distance, yet the drills still applied their wisdom to the forefront of combat.

“You're done,” Dal stated to a foe who overstepped a knife thrust, and punished joint and forehead with hammerstrikes that lashed out from the half orc. He further sealed their victory with each pressing of steel to the enemy.

“You're nothing but a desperate rabble,” Dal spat as the cultists considered their next move, the lingering moment between conflicts that they besieged the Order with. Dal considered reloading his crossbow, but took a few steps towards his longsword instead, his awareness of that position never leaving him. Only a score remained between him and his hallmark instrument. Only two score remained between them and being done with this display of violence. His eyes looked to his blade.

A hand worked magic about it.

“You,” Dal breathed, and was incensed by rage that he barely abated. He blinked as he saw the blade rise from the ground, elevated by telekinetic magic, the vast weapon hovering in shuddering place as more magic was applied to heft the weight of the thing, and then pointed as a siege weapon might at his position.

Dal's disgust displayed upon his face, and a low murmur of discontent growled out as he readied himself for this arcane powered irony.

He breathed and affixed his eyes, thinking that he might dodge it. Yet, Margot was somewhere behind him he thought. The blade would be made to strike his own ally in the back, and such a fate was unacceptable to the squire.

Dal sequestered rondel and looked to the most recent kill he had performed, buckled in joint and depressed of head. And lifted his own retort to his own flying weapon, the body limp. Dal launched the fallen cultist in a heave of muscle at his own blade that was tunnelling towards him in direct line, as if it were make shift ammunition to telekinetic ballista.

The blade could not deviate from it's terrible course, sinking into the body and arrested in movement as the blade punctured through the corpse, the crossguard preventing the tear through that the mage might desire. Dal was already beside the corpse's left, and clasped his hand around the grip that shuddered with arcane energy, and then the other as his hammer was hooked with military drill quickness around his belt. With both hands secured upon the weapon, his legs hunched down, his body turning to perform what was required next.

Dal simply arced the weapon in a vengeful catapult action. The body freed itself from the length of the blade and was sent hurtling crashed into the magic user, who was a mass of protesting arms that lacked the strength to dissuade the body from pinning him.

The squire made approach to the cultist, and performed a decapitating stroke to the ground bound magic user.

Dal felt the assurance of his own weapon within his hands again and gave a reassured cooling exhalation.

“Fucking magic,” Dal cursed and returned to Margot's side, longsword in hand, confidence firmly his from such a dangerous interplay rewarded by whatever force guided the fate of things in deadly exchange.

Margot Triss

 

[Roki]

Spread and coat did the dark ichor as it went across the Scion's twisting shape.

"Mund, we have to move!" Breklinn shout out, but she could not see whatever it was the Wyld Knight did. Nor if he still drew breath, one eye blinded by a dark trail of blood that ran from a red mouth open above her brow.

One of the cultists in the crowd threw themselves at the bloodied knight. She grunt. Fought to stay on her feet. Clubbed at the cultist's knees. Felt bone crack beneath the blow. Their weight fell all the faster.

Breklinn was thrown onto her back, a cultist still scrabbled at her with hooked fingers and cracked nails. Arms like twisted vines, scrabbled and squeezed about her armor.

More of the sightless swarmed the ceremonial tholos. Though their numbers thinned, the throng still outnumbered the knights upon the field.

And the blood that was spilt. In wrath and in rage. In virtue.

How the blood spilt its way up the stone steps of that marble temple. Ran up to the altar. Spread like red ribbons of wicked silk across the form that was once the Scion of Pinkrose.

The Seer but smiled, his head still bowed to the altar where all the blood gathered.

Kill him, Mund. The voice behind the Knight's eyes would whisper. Take his head, and end this.

The red cocoon upon the altar bulged. Pulsed. Stretched across its flesh-red membrane. A hand. A face. A yawning scream.

It split. Like wings, the red membrane fell away, and from its abyssal cloister, came a form, new and horrid in its grinning mockery.

The Scion Pinkrose
​

Its mantle of red draped across its spiny shoulders, and its lone eye looked to Faramund first. The Seer second. To those fools of Anathaeum that still fought on in the slaughtering field last. Its lone red eye, fixed like crimson jewel upon its malformed skull, that gleamed like patterned steel, oil dipped and fresh from the crucible.

Red rivulets of ichor trailed and flowed. Spiraled to drops and were drank in to that lone red eye.

Those cultists about Dal and Margot cease their struggle. Their eyeless faces pointed to the figure, made new before them.

"Hail! The Everwatcher!" One voice called out.

"Hail the Stareater!"

"Our light for him!"

"Our stars for him!"

---

Where Roki fights the madman, and Sosi hides

Another shift in the tangle of forms. Twist of arm. Grunts, desperate, laughs full of glee. A yelp of pain. A growl of fury. A flash of flame that blows the madman back. Blows him unto the ground, where the fires eat at him happily.

He screamed. Agony and horror mixed with joy as he rolled upon the ground.

"My light for you!" he cried.

Roki coughed. Got up to his knees and clutched at a wound that runs red at his side. His breath shallow. His eyes tired. Blood pooled slow about him.

"Gods," he pant. "I really wish i would've paid more attention in potions class," his eyes looked about for his companion.

For anyone.

---

Faramund Margot Triss Sosi Gnax Dal

 

[Oliver]

The people, the collective of a cult, broke into a chant. Shrieking and wailing like so many harpies. Beneath was a tremor as the crowd moved in unison, one that Oliver could feel all the more for the fact that he had his back pressed against the ground. Through the slit in the visor, he spied the maddened face of whomever held him down, the knife meant for him suddenly forced to a halt. It was nothing short of jarring.

But whatever the cause of this fleeting diversion, he’d take it.

With both gauntlets, he seized the cultist by the shoulders and wrenched sideways, legs helping for momentum. Despite the pain, of arcane knives and blunt force, he struggled to his feet faster than he could plausibly plan any next move. His immediate opponent remained dirtborne where they’d been thrown, unable to stop the stanza.

“ Our stars for— “

The rest of the verse died in their throat as cartilage gave, struck in by the heel of a boot.

***​

Fuck.

In a great, wooden thump, a body collided with the kite shield. It was promptly pushed back and toppled over, blade striking at empty air with the aimless manner of an automaton. It barely slowed him down as he marched with urgency.

On the ground were two — one bleeding, another afire. Syr Leinas hesitated none.

Steel flashed with flame as he swung, transmuting a forehead into a great caldera of bone, blood and brain matter. The screaming stopped. Teeth grit, he yanked the hammer out of the skull with an enraged grunt. The weapon was quickly looped away.

“ Tie your wound and stand up. “ He ordered past his shoulder, metal clicking as he loosed a little clay sphere from a loop on his belt. A little incantation and a gesture of the fingers lit the fuse. At a count of five, he slung the explosive at the skies with whatever might he had left.

The detonation was an amplified rumble, flaring bright crimson and a rain of sparks. A code requesting retreat. He didn’t remain to watch it, turning to face the squire. Despite the drained look upon the lad, he hadn’t regret for his harsh tone.

“ We are leaving. “

In a huff of hems, he knelt down to offer his arm and shoulder.

---

Cliffs Notes version:
- Oliver is faffing around.
- Syr Leinas aids Roki and calls for a retreat.
- The latter manifests above the battlefield, as a red flash of light and a sound like a strike of thunder.

Roki Margot Triss Sosi Gnax Dal Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Mund heard Breklinn call out to him, her tone urgent. Yet the voice in his mind called louder. Take his head, and end this. Simple instructions, easily followed. Sheathing his daggers, the dawnling stooped to snatch up a fallen blade. It wasn't his sabre, but it would suffice.

'Faramund!'

Turning, his eyes shimmering, Faramund stared at Breklinn, as if she was a stranger. Cultists swarmed her, clawing at exposed flesh like a pack of hyenas preparing themselves for a feast. They cackled just the same. Ignore her, the voice reminded him, kill the seer, end this. Hesitantly, Faramund turned away. Despair took Breklinn by the throat, squeezed.

Something changed. The gauze wrapped around the dawnling's mind worked loose. The knight froze.

He reached Breklinn in moments. The cultist straddling her looked up at his approach, smiled a bloody smile. 'Hail th-' The cultist's words were cut off as Faramund applied boot to face. Then, not missing a beat, he span to bisect the cultist pinning Breklinn's arms. Another screamed angrily, threw himself headlong at the big knight only to be met by steel.

Blood flecked Faramund's face as he hacked and hammered at the ring of enemies. He took arms, eyes, throats. A lucky strike caught him between the shoulder blades, and he stumbled, fell.

Rolling onto his back, Faramund stared up at Breklinn, his eyes returning to normal. 'What the fuck are you doing?' He barked. 'I'm on your side!'

Looking somewhat sheepish, Breklinn bowed her head, lone eye taking in the carnage. 'Sorry! Thought you were one of them.' Huffing, Faramund pressed to his feet. He nearly slipped in the ichor surrounding him. 'Forget it,' he said, 'we need to get the fuck out of here!'

Amidst the clangour and turmoil, Faramund heard something chuckle.

Looking up, he watched The Scion where it levitated above the altar. Blood flowed like rivers up the steps, defying the laws of nature. Faramund felt his own blood run cold as the Scion's lone eye passed over him, over the corpses he had made in defence of his comrade.

A hand seized his arm, hauled him backwards. Breklinn. 'What're you waiting for? We need to go, come on!'

Faramund went.

 

[Dal]

Retreat?

Dal scowled at the burst of sanguine and thunder crash. There was more death to bestow in his determined eyes.

This insane lot deserve to be put down.

Dal huffed and rolled his shoulders.

But who am I to argue with orders of better ranking.

He looked around with rising bitterness the adulations of the cult gathered. Their success enticed his steel to cut. But he knew he was no mercenary now, there were expectations of conduct. And besides, further aggression might break them out of this stupor he thought. Might compel them to redoubled efforts.

Done my part.

No cavalry to drive down their due exit it seemed, there were worse circumstances to egress Dal thought. But then the gloom of supernatural foulness loomed portentous in the air.

Dal growled again and balanced self preservation and diligence to orders to concern for his comrades. To venture to assist the fleeing knights might place himself as a liability. The tip of his left ear twitched with irritation at the quandary as the sound of fighting still carried in the wind.

Damn it all.

The praise of damned ritual continued. Dal blinked away sweat which was turning chill upon his brow for lack of delivering cuts, shook his head at himself. Bitterness grew, anger flushing his face as he stared with malice at the cultists who praised the deed wrought.

No point lingering upon it. Orders to be followed.

And yet, the concern for his comrades pressed upon him. They were out there, and who knew what violence still played out even as these crowed their success. Dal considered the reprimand he might occour, but better to endure such things than to endure the looks of those who might cast baleful eye at him for letting fellow knights fight alone.

He determined his course of action as he placed his longsword back into scabbard, and crossbow back into hand in swift movement, locking a bolt into place with taut string via taut muscle. Clack.

He looked to Margot and then looked to the source of distant combat. Intoned his position oddly, callously, his thoughts on himself and his use of initiative instead of what was directly commanded of him. He was compelled to act in accordance to his own assessment. Years of fighting on the field independently for money and self determination mingled with his new feeling as of being a part of something greater than himself.

“Meeting them half way. Who knows who will harry them. Come if you want. Follow the order to retreat if you please. I won't just slip away, not while I hear fighting to break free of these idiots.”

And so, Dal, crossbow in grip, began to jog, his eyes looking for fellows to break out of the place, moving with tactical mind, conserving his energies. He wouldn't go in rushing to break his comrades out, not unless there was another flare requiring assistance. No. He would assist the withdrawal one way or another. His eyes sharp, his ears wishing the sound of combat was closer to him so he might assist more directly. But the order was to retreat.

Can't be everywhere. Can't do everything.

But I can be where's needed.

Dal affixed his rondel to the front of his crossbow, forming a vicious bayonet as he moved through the gloom.

Hope to put a few more of these dolts in the ground yet.

Roki Margot Triss Sosi Gnax Oliver Faramund