Open Chronicles Big Trouble in Little Portshaw

[Smiling One]

Eyrn locked eyes with Willis, she looked as though she had seen hell. Eryn's cheeks were stained with blood and tears and she shakily reached a hand and caressed his cheek. A big smile formed on Willis' face, he grabbed Eyrn's wrist and kissed it. Before Willis could do anything else, however, Eryn began to sob and the young man placed her head against his chest. "It's okay," Willis murmured. "You're safe."

Willis noticed the deep cut on Eryn's chest and immediately took out a potion from his little black bag. He carefully dropped some of the substance on her wound. The cut immediately faded away as though Eryn was never hurt. "That'll hold," Willis said seeing some undead going the opposite direction. "Let's go."

Willis began carrying Eryn in a bridal away from Little Portshaw. He ran as he can climb up a hill to the huge tree overlooking the town. Willis and Eryn would often cuddle as they watched village from afar and Willis would share stories about his time as a mercenary and monster hunter. Willis set Eryn down against the tree gently noticing a gash across her cheek. It had a green glow to it, Willis frowned and applied some of the potion to the cut.

The young man was skeptical that it wouldn't do anything due to what he suspected to be a magical attack but thankfully the wound faded. Willis wiped Eyrns tears and sat next to the young woman "I missed you," he whispered wrapping his arm around her. "Are you all right? What happened?"

 

[Lochmoth Visigoth]

“You always lacked taste, quite tangibly too, my gnawingly precocious, miserable ingrate of a beau. I would backhand you so as to introduce you to my newest gilded ring if only you had the pinkish flesh sack to experience it! As you can imagine, time withers my leisure, I simply lacked the resources necessary to pummel you back into the hellish pit of tar you writhed from, and how rudely you reminded me that I cannot allow you any free reign, lest you should gallivant about and reap my prospects! You jest of a brood, and yet despite the tyrannical sardonicism, I crave your kiss of death nonetheless.”

A grimace parting her slimy lips, her speech mildly interrupted by the shrill twang of her spear lodging itself through the armor of one of his fallen, yet still crawling, minions. She decided she liked the squelching noise oozing from its lungs. ​

“Such sweet succulence on my maw would be more than welcomed, indeed, for this shame of untimely arrival is unbearable! I hope, nigh, pray you feel in every inch of your shell disdain for failing to raven me in invitation. Engorge yourself with you table scraps whilst I ponder of a more deserving town of my efforts. I'll simply enjoy your army of undead rather than shake my lulled crew. The living, unfortunately, lack universal stamina, as you might imagine with that empty skull of yours.”​

Surely, the only proper response among the rejoicing agony echoing from the village was a celebration of boisterous laughter, a near giggle. Endellion is just about as cute as a blushing bride, if you can look past her glimmering razors of pearl dotted in her black gums and the ghostly, slit pupils splitting her irises. She offered the Captain a swift bow of her head, an acceptable sign of respect and momentary peace. The cacophony outside worried her not, as the lovers quarreling and the crew of heroes were far preoccupied with the legion of undead, confusion instead knitting her brow. Utilizing the silence to give one glance around, flicking away a grieving corpse that wandered too close, she exhaled, then sharply inhaled, standing upright and elongating her finned spine.

“An irate offense boils my guts. You speak of wayward vagabonds slitting your efforts, and yet we are a lonesome pair? Where are these great feats of strengths opposing you? Are you afraid of your shadow once again--”​

Her tirade interrupted too soon, the fish promptly collapsed to the ground as three crawling corpses plummeted through the roof on top of her. In a fit of rage, the gargantuan mass exploded upwards, grabbing the pirate captain and launching him into the air.

 

[Méchanteau]

The starstruck skeleton paced in circles around his muse, taking in her mighty figure as she went on to beautifully speak without saying anything worthwhile, or at least, anything that concerned him more than the two rapscallions. He delighted on her form and the sound of her words, but his mind was on what his crows and vultures and seagulls showed him, the pyromagus on a flying steed... Most troublesome indeed... The easterner, on the other hand, brought a bladed pole arm to fend off a village, give or take, of undead. The Dread Captain chortled, coincidentally along with his companion, which made him uneasy. Endellion's laughter could be a sign of many things, half of them in some way related to Méchanteau's bones being grounded to dust and used as prime alchemical reagents. Or cutlery. Or condiments. Again, she was cute like that. An uneasy silence fell upon the two, Méchanteau, confused, sheathed his weapon and stood still, his stance relaxed and confident. The Queen wanted to know why they were alone? Where these much-spoken about thugs were? If the Dread Captain feared the very shade he cas-

Three of the most rotten, most bloated, most bileful, most putrefacted undead in the lich's employ fell through the floorboards and right on the Marquise. Away from the splash zone, Méchanteau had only to bend a little to dodge a stray kidney as he laughed and wheezed in a fit of hysteria, this was the best bit of slapstick he had witnessed in the last hundred years! He kept on jeering even when he saw that he was about to be subjected to the fury of a deep-sea creature "Harharharhaaarrr!! Aye gawds, you look like one of my own!" he commented just before being thrown up up and awaaaaaay, crashing wood and thatch alike, until the only above him were storm clouds and his target. Recovering his bearings, the necromancer whipped out his khopesh and stopped in mid-air. Then, like one ascends a flight of stairs, he began walking to the intruders in sight, Maho Sparhawk and a horsie the skeleton would force thralldom upon if given the chance. The skeleton had also brought his pets, behind him flocked an entire flying menagerie - carrion birds, many as ripe with corrupt magic as their master. "Yet another joins in the revelry!" the fog grew thicker, almost solid, under Méchanteau's boots "I expected more to come, truth be told, the feast is almost over and now remain only the appetizers! Skip the pleasantries next time, would ya, dear Maho Sparhawk of the 'Great' College of Elbion, it was a bore and a half waiting for you lot to come! But come you did and now you are given a choice. Submit to my will on your own will, or have it ripped from your heart and be risen again against it!" He spun the khopesh on the tip of his finger, biding its eldritch denizen to stir in its forbidden sleep.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Think Maho... Think!

He, however, couldn't think of anything clever in time, as what seemed to be the leader of this Horde approached below.

It was strange. Sparhawk felt eluded. The Necromancer at Belgrath had such an underlying power; a power that could've oozed at will, but was purposefully locked away. The power of a vagabond. As they say, "The Solitude of being alone". This... Creature on the other hand, seemed to wear itself on it's sleeves. But Sparhawk would not underestimate him like he'd underestimated the last. He would not sacrifice his friends over something so avoidable again. Not this time.

Seeing this... it sickened him. To think someone would spread such evil, such unadulterated hatred. What could stand against such unfiltered abomination? To take on such insurmountable force, with nothing but your wits and knowledge to guide you through the Storm? Sparhawk knew he wasn't the man for the Job, but in times such as these, him and the Eastern Stranger would have to do.

"I would- I... I would never submit to someone like you! You... You...!" Sparhawk was too furious for words. He'd seen enough death, and to see such a waste of life; villagers who made their living by the sea, coming back from shore with their latest catch: feeding their families, living their lives, taking everything one step at a time. Seeing all of that stripped from someone, it touched Sparhawk at the very core of his being. The words he wished to express couldn't be verbalised. He felt frenzied, tempered, like a cast-iron hammer striking at the heat of a raw ore.

He felt the marks that now ran down from the nape of his neck and down his spine sear. The various symbols and dark-sigils that littered his back began to run deeper, the cracks between them glowing an unnatural crimson, the same colour that once lit the tunnels of the Dwarves, and the same colour that ran across it's floors when all was done. It's pain was excruciating, the lines grew their way to his eyes, exaggerating the blood-shot that resided within them, as if a great forge was lit inside his heart, and began to below from within.

As hard as he tried, when using the powers Imamu granted him, he wasn't offered much control. Once it took over, there was very little 'Sparhawk' left. The body was there, but the spirit was not willing, opting to leave until the rage subsided, and the job was finished.

Sparhawk began to shout an incantation with words he did not himself know, in a language he had never before heard. His staff raised, from it's top, a great plume began to spout; a great, shattering red Flame. It grew in the sky, a ball of fire that hungered for fuel, like a storm-cloud in a desert, that offered no salvation, and only demise.

Without thought of something clever or witty to say, he seemed to act on pure instinct, and said exactly as he felt;

"Die!"
​

And with that, the staff was aimed itself at the Skeleton Necromancer, and the towering flame from it's end seemed to abandon it, escalating itself towards it's target. It almost seemed to grow as it flew, spiralling like a screw, concentrating itself into a blade shape, inter-twining in itself.

Sparhawk watched on, the light of the fire in his eyes, and a sadistic smile written across his face, an expression all in itself alien to him.

 

[Huang Tien]

On the outskirts of the town, where the stragglers of the horde wandered...seemingly aimless against the horde of similarly mindless bodies...until a quick spinning blur took their heads off, causing their lifeless bodies to come crashing down into the ground. What was that? It wasn't a human, as the spinning deadliness began to cut into the meat of the horde, sending body parts flying in which ever direction as it advanced forward like a meat grinder.

Within seconds, the blur planted itself into the ground, revealing that it was no mere being...but the war glaive that the stranger had been holding not too long ago, as it's pointed end was stuck into the ground, sliding to a halt...with the blade splitting the head of another mindless sack. This might have been confusing for some, but were one to look to the where the fury of the blade had come from...they'd notice, in the mist...a glowing that became brighter...and brighter as it emerged...

Spoiler

Out of the mist, there he was...the stranger of the East, and he appeared to have thrown his only weapon, thus he appeared to have been unarmed...it did not seem to concern him much, however, as his expression was hidden under his straw hat and his hands were placed ildy behind his back. The man had a relaxed posture, seemingly in no hurry, as even his walk appeared to have been steady and slow.

The attitudes of the mindless surged, as they limped they're way forward at the living...but this hardly seemed to faze the man...

Instead, he calmly paced forward in his current position, up to the first victim of his deadly waepon...he was once a merchant guard, now reawakened to serve his skeleton overlord...until his head was taken off by the stranger's blade...as the stranger used his feet to kick up the dead guard's weapon, a double bladed long sword, shooting his arm out to catch it in midair...his expression still a mystery...as he brought forth the weapon, and examined it closely under his straw hat.

A crude and unbalanced weapon, no doubt, but it would have to do...as the stranger looked up to see a horde of the same mindless puppets limp forward...ready to tear him apart...

Too bad it was never that easy...the first poor sod found out when the stranger simply thrust forward, slicing the throat open upon the edgy of the blade.

As the body fell, the stranger lunged into action, his blade pointed forward...yet he was not swinging, but continue to thrust forward. What he was doing was slicing, specifically, into the specific parts of his opponent's body, despite half of their bodies appeared to be falling off. These were quick and rapid slices, happening in succession of each other, emulating a motion a kin to cutting an orange...only this was cutting into the red flesh of the undead.

This allowed for the stranger to slice his way into the horde, speeding past the clumsiness that was the horde, until he was at the center...where, with one motion, brought his weapon to his rear, before slicing in a slanted manner with such force that the sword cleaved through the bodies in front of him. Yet before the meat puppets around the stranger could react, he grabbed onto the weapon with his free hand and quickly turned, bringing the weapon into his opponents with a horizontal slice.This did much to cut down those who had surrounded him, giving him some semblance of breathing room...yet the bodies just seemed to press forward.

Again, this did little to dissuade the stranger, instead he mutter some words and the bright aura simply illuminated further, as the stranger threw his weapon into a spin. The blade itself began to glow, as the weapon's spinning made it resemble a steel flower, as it cleaved itself into the horde. Yet, the stranger seemed to have put more then a spin into the motion, as the spinning weapon began to fly in circles around the stranger, cleaving into all those whom approached.

It was to this affect that more body parts and blood began to fly, so did the makeshift weapons in their hands. It was to this affect, that the stranger's eyes narrowed, and from the air, hew as able to pluck another blade similar to what he had retrieved earlier. The sword was a bit shorter, but nevertheless, it would serve the same purpose...as the stranger caught the spinning blade that up to a moment ago had been dancing around him, catching it in a reverse grip. The man, with one motion, would bring the blade out of reverse grip...

Now he was armed with two blades.

Taking another step forward, the stranger would glow as he took both blades and swung them to the left...before taking another step to the opposite side, bringing his blades forth as he did...then again to the left...then right...and the man would proceed forward in a criss cross manner, cutting left and right and left and right...until he swung his blades to the left, hard, and began to spin like a top, both blades were stuck outwards and cutting the horde down.

As the stranger's spin came to a close, he used the momentum from the spin to throw both swords in quick succession in a horizontal manner, sending them into a spin that began to cut it's way forward, mowing down any undead in it's tracks. As the blades spun, the stranger sprinted forward, following closely in it's tracks. The blades were able to clear a path forward, spinning past the glaive thrown earlier, and continue to spin forward...as the stranger ran forward and onto the slanted polearm...simply stopping when he reached the hilt of the blade...as he began to survey the situation.

From where he stood, he was still a bit away on the outskirts of village, barley having made it forward into the village. Up above, the wizard seemed to have start to summon pure fire...but where was his target? This lead the stranger's eyes downwards towards the center of the village. Although he could not see exactly what the man was targeting, it was very clear to him that there was quite a lot of commotion occurring within the area.

Without a word, the stranger would leap off his pull arm, reaching up and grabbing the weapon by it's hilt, and yanking the weapon out of the ground, twirling it into it's combat ready stance stright behind him. Within the next few moments, those whom were watching would see not just body parts flying over the roof tops, but entire corpses soaring through the air, as one would assume this was the stranger cleaving a path towards the center of town....his speed seemingly unhindered by the walking meat puppets blocking his path.​

 

[Eryn Pere]

Willis poured a potion on her wounds, there was pain initially but she felt the wound on her sternum closing. Her body was limp. She was unwilling to move. She just leaned against his shoulder when he carried her away. Maybe she wasn't supposed to die just yet.

Willis carried her out of the infested village and brought her up a hill... The hill that led to their tree, their special place of quiet and tender moments. They sat against the tree and Willis put his arms around her again. From that vantage point she could see over the village... Fire erupted in the sky.

He asked her again if she was alright and if she could tell him what happened. She was able to find her voice this time, as she lay nestled in his protective arms. But her voice was weak and she was still in shock.
"The dead... came out of nowhere... attacked the tavern and we... we tried to hold out... The captain... kissed me..."

She closed her eyes and slumped into him.
Before she fell asleep/passed out she said one last thing to him...
"I'll... go... with you..."

 

[Smiling One]

Willis frowned when Eryn mentioned that the Captain kissed her. Immediately his first thoughts were that he forced himself on Eryn but he had a feeling that it was something even more sinister. Just then the young man heard the clanking of metal and curses from the burning village. A battle was unfolding and it sounds like the invaders needed some assistance. Eyrn was passed out snuggled into Willis' arms. Willis wanted to be with her, to love and protect Eryn but the people in the village needed help.

The tree was Willis and Eryn's quiet place where they could talk and be intimate with one another. No one went here except for him and Eryn. Willis sighed and gently kissed the young girl on the lips. "Stay here," he whispered. "I'm gonna help the town and I'll come back to you." Willis kissed Eryn on the lips again and placed her gently against the tree. She looked peaceful a small smile forming on her lips as though she felt safe.

Willis didn't know what Eyrn meant when she said that she would go with him but he had no time to think about that. Drawing his Cutlass, Willis ran downhill towards Little Portshaw. As he entered the village he saw undead tearing apart the men and women who were fleeing from the burning town. Willis performed a horizontal slash, decapitating a skeleton who was chasing a young woman and sliced and diced more zombies on his way to where the fighting was fiercest creating a path for the inhabitants to escape.

It was then Willis saw a familiar friend fighting what appeared was the Captain of this undead army. "Maho!" Willis shouted a smile spread across his face. "It's been-" Willis stopped when he got a closer look at the Captain. His blood ran cold as his memories as a pirate surfaced. "I-I know you!" Willis shouted. "We've raided together before!"

 

[Lochmoth Visigoth]

Endellion, offering her stalwart skeleton companion a theatrical round of applause after his stunning display of brutish fervor as he played the matador for the raging bovine, quickly retracted her sentiments after watching his opponent -- who, beyond her knowledge, would be none other than the magnificent Maho Sparhawk -- charge upon his putrefied remains with the fury of ten thousand suns. Writhing in disgust as the sludge of the collapsed corpses, now conglomerated in a pile of gangrenous slime, settled into her gills, she arrived to the ingenious conclusion that the only true way to rid herself from the horror of this tavern was to escape the labyrinthine masque altogether. Bee lining for the first window she saw, that is, the first opening devoid of the living dead in all their snarling, avaricious glory, her foot steps quaked across the wooden beams, announcing her glorious descent down into a presumable batch of aflame hay.

Alas, the aquatic maiden of terror plundered not a cart of straw, but instead landed upon a peculiar spectacle. Unrecognized to her as the slayer of the undead, the titanic creature of the depths slammed into Huang Tien, interrupting his glory with the inopportune placement of her being. Crashing on top of him, his body breaking her fall against the rocky, dirt road, she gagged and croaked as the wind escaped her lungs, Endellion rolling to his side as she attempted to recollect her wits. Hacking up a pile of coagulated mucous from the windpipe tucked behind those glimmering rows of teeth, she dragged herself to her feet, pressing her palm to her temple. The poor queen sustained a mild head injury in her fall, though she cared not as to what ailments hindered the assumed human before her. Scoffing, she cleared her throat before huffing and puffing out her chest.

"No doubt clouds my uninhibited mind that you are capable of tremendous things, insolent worm, but suppressing my flit with your altruism fails to be a worthy use of your time. I see you leave a trail of decay behind you, and I say, as I do believe, that an enemy of my weary acquaintance, at best, is no similarly dreary alliance of mine at all! No, you lout! Get up and cast yourself away, lest I drag you to the depths and drown you myself."​

 

[Méchanteau]

While a pirate king of extreme renown, Méchanteau was also a slaver (of living people) on the side, and so had a good head for numbers when it came to rounding up bodies… But, did a carcass sliced in twain count as two? What about those that Huang Tien diced and chopped into portion-sized titbits? No matter how it was cut flesh was still flesh, and bone was still bone, and as long as they bore no life they would obey the lich’s command. And so the gore began piling, squirming, into masses of limbs and guts and bone, stomping and clawing as rotten red and yellow white horrors of unlife. Méchanteau liked to call these impromptu servants ‘meatballs’... He missed food, eating it, playing with it, forcing it down people's throats... Perhaps he'd do just that to the easterner, send some plague victim's intestine snake down his throat, or up his... yeah.

But the Dread Captain had more immediate concerns. The mage, for starters, who was growing tattoos of some sort. An ill-omen if there ever was one, but most certainly not as ominous as Méchanteau himself, surrounded by his carrion flock, walking on magical mist, wielding a weapon even more cursed than him. All in all, the skeleton was confident. But then Maho began speaking in tongues not wholly familiar to the captain, who thought he was being cussed at and so cussed in return in some ancient dialect, calling Sparhawk's mother a grotesque creature fit to be sewn inside a camel and nonsense of that sort as he shook his left fist and made a rude gesture with his other.

Then, something that the skeleton could understand happened, something bad. Flame sparked from the magician's staff - unfortunately, the lich could not extend his necrotic influence over ash. The flame grew into a small sun, and if Méchanteau didn't show fear it was only because he had neither muscles or skin to show it - but fear was a useful tool, it kept the living alive and the unliving undead. The lich spun his khopesh faster, if he were to survive he'd need more mist, more wind and more things in general. Soon Tabin-Ur's most faithful servant was veiled completely in something dark and foul like a thundercloud.

In response to Maho's death threat, spoken so brashly and instinctively, Méchanteau had seven very carefully chosen words:

"I ALREADY DID! COME AND JOIN ME!"
​

Demonic flame clashed against eldritch mist, as the two magicians, both masters of their wizarding arts, pushed each other to greater heights. The unstoppable blade of embers and the immovable wall of wind and water struggled against one another, it was a spectacle like no other! But not a terribly long one. The fog cracked and the fire was absorbed by it, snuffed into a lukewarm breeze. Winds, natural and hearty ones, blew away the wisps of dark magic revealing that Méchanteau still hovered in place, grinning from auditory ossicle to auditory ossicle.

Then, Willis appeared, an annoyance at best, a timely distraction at worst. "To the devils with you, Willis! Lest I feed you to Endellion!"

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

It may not have lasted long, but the exchange was nothing short of immense.

As the torrent of flame left Sparhawk's Staff, it clashed with the dark, whirling thunder-cloud that the Necromancer formed around him. Sparks and embers shot off in every direction, some hitting undead, catching fire and running, others landing on the floor, missing their mark. The two Sorcerer's powers fused and melded, their equal and opposite magicks fighting against one another, their intense conflict generating a most inconceivable noise, like two dragons grappling for dominance over one another.

Battles such as this were rare in Arethil. Very rarely did two Sorcerers of such incredible power come to blows, especially with the intent of utterly destroying the other. The only time Sparhawk had experienced a battle such as this, was between the Sorcerer at Belgrath, and that almost led to his demise. He would not meet it today.

The necromancer's powers however, cancelled out Sparhawk's. The fire was put out, becoming a warm wind which dissipated into the air. From the smoke that diffused, all he saw was the Skeleton's smug expression, goading him with his magical prowess.

He slung his Staff onto Nemesis, and threw his robe off of him, revealing the tattoos that decorated his bodies, the grooves they made in his skin flowing a deep red, making Sparhawk look like a flying red comet in the middle of the sky. His left arm, previously black and stone, became a bleeding crimson flame, moulded into the shape of an arm, attached to his body by more than just sinews and muscles, as if this mystical limb was willed onto his body. It radiated a molten orange tint.

Sparhawk took a breath, calming his mind. He had studied all the lessons he had been taught through his contract with Imamu, absorbing the immense detail, describing how one can control such facets of power without losing ones sense of self. He could only try. He knew he had to deal with the undead. The Necromancer may have control over the horde, but if he left them; not helping the Eastern Stranger, he would be doing him a disservice. His arms began to move in the air, forming clouds similar to the ones the Necromancer had summoned. They began to tear the sky open above him, slowly spreading their way across it's length, blocking out the darkness of the night, but emitting an natural warmth of the sun, as if the essence of light that gave the world life had been summoned in it's most unrefined form. Clouds of daylight. He knew he'd be expending the majority of his power, even encroaching on the Law of Magic, but if he were to stop the marching army, something drastic had to be done.

"I am Maho Sparhawk Jerik! High Sorcerer of Elbion, the Fire Mage of Belgrath, and Champion of the Fire of Lion's power! I carry the blest Staff of the Phoenix, And if it must be done, i shall see you are sent back to the Dark Recess from where you came!" He shouted, trying to cling onto the humanity that was burrowed underneath his new, unfamiliar form.

And his hands - once again - directed themselves towards the floor, small pores began to form in the clouds overhead, and from those pores began to rain flame. A purifying fire that fell from the sky itself, guiding themselves towards the undead that desperately wished to claim the lives of the living below.

Nemesis, seeing the danger, attempted to fly him away, hoping to avoid any attacks from below. If he was floored, he would be vulnerable. He didn't feel like dying today. Not here.

 

[Huang Tien]

An observation back to the stranger would reveal that he had hardly slowed down. Instead, he was spinning about with his polearm, slicing through the horde in front of him akin to some sort of flesh propeller. It seemed that anything that entered this radius immediately fell apart, as the bloody bits trying to form within the radius were cut to noodles, and those meatballs who did try to enter soon found themselves undone once more...this was ontop of all the intact corpses that had tried to charge him initially. Perhaps in some capacity, this angered the bits and pieces. as at some point they began to form into one large "meatball", towering upwards into the air, taller then any building in the vicinity, acting like a monstrous worm...even roaring as such.

Intimidating.

The stranger would suddenly end his rapid circular cuts, twirling his polearm and bringing it to face the monster. But in some strange trun, the stranger would let go of his polearm with one hand... and stood to attention...the other hand on the polearm , which was firmly planted into the ground...and his other hand was now vertically placed parallel to his torso...as he watching the tsunami of body parts and bloody bits surge forward at him like somthing of a children's nightmare.

But the man hardly seemed concern....

Instead, he looked up into the air...watching as two balls of fire smashed into the mess, sending body parts flying and burning, disintegrating the matter into ash, blowing nothing more then a wave of hot air into the stranger's face...as the mess in front of him screamed in agony, falling apart in a blaze of fire...the stranger would glance back upwards to the wizard, watching as his spasms rained down fire upon their heads...as more balls of inferno impacted the ground around the stranger, kicking up dirt and blowing hot air at the stranger.

It was just then, the man's ears perked up, as he heard somthing loud approach...not even looking, the stranger would quickly side step out of the way, watching as a blur flew past inches, hitting the ground below.

The stranger wouldn't even react to this fellow, as he looked down upon her as she made her threats....before mildly leaping backwards, allowing another fire ball slammed into the ground between the two, inches from each parties.

The fireballs were now falling a bit more sporadically then the stranger had thought, and while he was very grateful for the support, it was clear to the stranger that he could not stay standing in these streets.

Thus, the man muttered somthing under his breath, and yet again he began to glow yellow. Bringing his polearm into a ready stance, the stranger would shoot forward at a rapid place into the blazes infront of him. Utilizing the strength of one hand he brought the rear of the polearm forward, before sticking it into the ground, using the weapon to catapult himself into the air...and over/into the fire...into the hordes on the other side. Yet the man didn't land on the ground; instead, his feat touched the head of a nearby mindless puppet, using the head to spring himself further forward. The stranger was now moving as if he was as light as a feather, flying forward on the heads of the undead, moving at such a pace that the sloppy swings of those below fail to find it's mark; as by the time they had brought their weapons up into the air, he was already gone.

More fire balls fell around the heads of the undead, as the stranger bounced around the street, moving further forward into the commotion. One particular ball of inferno was about to make impact right ontop of the stranger, but at almost the last split secound, he leaped out of the way and to the side, and stright onto a roof.

It was here, he looked up again, choosing his targets carefully...surveying the grounds for where to strike...​

 

[Eryn Pere]

Eryn watched Willis go through slit lids... He was a dark silhouette against the flames. His shoulders bent with purpose and he walked with the doom of a hero... The hero she always believed he was. She heard the roar of flames and stars fell from the clouds onto the village. The air was tense with magic as the two sorcerers battled in the sky. She was exhausted but sleep was far from her mind. She lay comfortably in the roots of the trunk where Her and Willis spent hours together. This was the safest place in the village now... Her life was gone, the inn was gone... almost on que a fireball fell on the inn.

She lay there cold and shivering, watching death and destruction, but she was too tired to be afraid, to scream, or cry, she just watched. Occasionally she would see a warrior with a polearm dance above the chaos as if he floated on air. But suddenly her view was blocked by a black silhouette of someone approaching. The figure came closer and the dead glow in its eyes revealed it was a zombie. Eryn was too tired to struggle. She just closed her eyes and waited for death to come... But instead of death, a blanket covered her cold limbs, and hands tucked it around her chilled body bringing her some warmth. She looked up at the creature, it gave a hollow groan before it shuffled back down the hill to the village.

What had just happened?

 

[Smiling One]

"Shit!" Willis yelled seeing Maho summon massive flames around him. Before doing so, Maho took off his robes revealing dark red tattoos. The young man stared at him with shock was Maho doing Rune Magic? That was a long forgotten school of magic if it truly was Rune Magic did he learn it from? Willis didn't have to time ponder it as fireballs rained from the sky heading towards his old "friend". However, Willis was caught in the crossfire barely dodging the flaming balls, the young man took out an Ice Bomb from his bag preparing to throw it towards the zombie captain.

It was hard to get good shot off with all the damn fireballs all over the place. Still carrying the bomb, Willis continued to dodge the fireballs and headed for a building ahead. The entire village was a boiling inferno at this point as Willis climbed the ladder that lead to the roof, he could hear the impact of the meteors hitting the ground. Some of them caused the ground to shake nearly knocking Willis down.

The young man finally went to the rooftop and saw a stranger surveying the carnage below. "Hey, you!" Willis shouted. "What are you doing here!"

(OOC: That was directed to Huang Tien)

 

[Lochmoth Visigoth]

Hmph. Thoroughly unimpressed with having been ignored, she quickly etched in her withering consciousness to avoid pleasantries with the ilk of man, lest she imperil whatever semblance of self control left in her hulking frame. Endellion swears to whatever creators sit upon the amaranthine oasis above that she attempts to act in goodwill, but pesky little flesh bags make it oh-so difficult with their squirming and writhing and screeching, she simply can't help herself from the overwhelming urge sweltering in her guts to ground these landlubbers into a pulpy goop, one suitable for a smoothie or fine casserole. In all her daydreaming about her next meal, her prey launched himself to the rooftops, narrowly escaping her claws and strangulating grasp. Exhaling expletives from her mother tongue under her breath, she dug her heels into the scorched mud beneath her and turned away from the commotion, stomping her way out of the cacophonous village. Captain Méchanteau can dance in the sky all by his lonesome and enjoy his time dodging fireballs and flying sticks, and she figured her brooding would clearly communicate her abandon.

As she rampaged to where she assumed the docks were, her leave led her winding through paths and hilltops. This labyrinth of a town managed to befuddle her dwindling intellect as the explosions and groans of the waking dead reverberated through her skull, her senses dulling with the commotion. Hissing as she struck down a stray crawler with her unbridled might, the downtrodden matriarch marched forward and tripped over a camouflaged figure, falling face first into a pile of spare limbs from one of the recently amassed "meatballs." Rolling over in defeat, she sprawled out on the floor and gandered at the army of stars above, speaking to the shivering girl beside her. She did not know or care to know Eryn's name, she simply saw the life in her face and smelled a familiar odor of skeletal necropolis.

"My sincerest apologies for accidentally assaulting you, my dear. You don't mind if I lay here and rot, do you?"​