Open Chronicles Digging out the rot

[Sylvian Artesto]

Sylvian had been joking when he offered to be thrown headlong into the army of bones in the valley beneath. He was beginning to realize that he really must watch his tongue around this Letai, she seemed quite good at turning hair-brained ideas into something akin to legitimate strategy. That she so readily included that in her plan of attack had him looking to the rest of the group, waiting for someone to object to such an obvious death wish.

All he got was the Witch, strolling up to him with a stick of oil. Lords, he was going to finally die here, and it would be because of his own big mouth. How fitting, considering how he'd lived. With a resigned sigh, he held out his arms for her to mark, having gone through this process a few times in the past. "Unless it'll cause me to sprout wings, not sure how much the flight aide will help, considering my destination." He quipped down to her. "It might actually be more effective to haphazardly crash, rather than land with any level of grace."

The dwarf was doing his best to dissuade the others, at least, but much of the attention now was on the movement on the other side of the valley, briefly illuminated by a lightning strike. Yes, another group had engaged with the horde, but judging from the angle, they hadn't meant to. More likely they'd failed to sneak around them and were now decidedly outmatched.

The poor souls.

Once the witch had finished her work, Sylvian offered a nod of gratitude before slinking over to the massive bull of a man, seemingly more beast than human. Despite his fearsome appearance, the fellow seemed just as downtrodden about the fate of the other group as Artesto himself. Reaching out, Sylvian prodded his bicep.

"At the risk of overstepping my authority..." He briefly looked at the Letai woman who'd taken the lead all to herself. "An extra five men may not seem like much, but if we had their aide..." Now, he tilted his head towards Trimmin. "We, or I alone should you wish, could be launched over the horde, to that side of the valley. From there, we help them retreat and join with them. Eleven us will stand a far better chance than six."

Izara Maranae Josai Jhyrann

 

[Josai]

Quiet as she was, a frown crooked the corner of Josai's face.

"No, suppose it wont," she said, with a hint of defeat there at the edges of her voice.

But her eyes looked up at the sky, and those clouds that had gathered and stormed down the lightning. They broke apart now, but she could feel the weft of the storm still tracing through them.

Such was the way of the elements. Their energies, conduits for magick. She drew in a breath, and moved towards the edge of their camp. "But maybe there is something we can do, to up their chances," she said with a dreary smile, and began to trace a circle in the dirt with the butt of her spear.

Sigils came next. A weave of old runes, from ages past. Torment, Tsunder, Thrack.

Once set, they began to glow. Spark, crackle and hiss with arced energies. Lightning and storm bounced and traced along the lines of the locus drawn there upon the ground.

The runes on Josai's spear head took in that light, sizzled and cracked with the power.

"Five minutes?" she voiced to her party. An impish smile wrinkling the corner of her eyes. "We best get moving then," overhead, the clouds started to gather thick. A thread of lightning snaked across the sky, and the runed circle on the ground glowed all the brighter.

Jhyrann Izara Sylvian Artesto Maranae

 

[Maranae]

Her attention had been drawn to the horde below about the same time as had Jhyrann. The intervening distance did not make much different to her sharp eyes; she could see the retreat of men under the onslaught. Her ears could pick up, faintly, the sound of panic and grim determination.

Was a familiar sound to her.

She stared at the mass of enemies and wrestled with herself. The human part wanted to help the others, even if that meant fighting. She was not super keen on fighting, but she had been trained extensively in how to wield weapons and how to not die, or at least not die very easily.

But the animal part of her was just that. An animal. Fight or flight figured wholly in that equation. That, and instinct. Instinct dictated stalking through the tall grass slowly. Silently. Waiting until the right moment, then pouncing and ripping and tearing.

Straightforward was the only way here, though. The letai, the one with the cat-ears, had the right idea as far as she was concerned.

"Right through the middle," she said in her slow way, turning to look Izara in the eyes briefly. Right through the middle to help the others. All she had to do was eviscerate anything that specifically got in her way. She was fast and exceptionally light on her feet; it could work.

Without waiting for any of the others, she started down towards the thousand strong force. First walking, then joggling, then increasing her pace until she moved like a lioness sprinting in for the kill.

Apt.

 

[Izara]

Izara looked at the commotion, her boisterous zeal subdued as she tried to piece together what had happened. Where had that group gone wrong? It might have just been a bad stroke of luck, or were there traps? Did they have scouts and lookouts? When she turned to look at Blondie, she had yet to say anything contradictory or consenting before the tang of magic made her turn to the witch.

"What is that?" How would a circle and letters help them? Sure, it was pretty, but they needed to get through the horde. When it came down to it, she didn't want to help the other group. That was the distraction they needed, wasn't it? Why would they help them when it meant danger?

Izzy couldn't keep her eye on eleven people, that was too many to--

"Wait!" Red hair flashed through, her grasp reaching nothing but air. She sighed, exasperated but conceding at the fate the group chose. Sometimes, there was nothing to do but follow along. And so the letai began to make her way down to the horde, hopeful instead of confident that with her agility and instincts, she wouldn't get piled on by a bunch of bones.

Jhyrann Josai Sylvian Artesto Maranae

 

[Jhyrann]

"Idiots," Jhyrran rumbled.

The southerners were soft and weak. They might rescue five - if they were lucky - but it would undermine their plan to save hundreds. Small villages would be swallowed by rhe swarm of undead if they did not stop the lich.

Still, it would not do to stand and watch.

Trimmin had pulled his pack onto the floor. He took a handful of quarrels and dipped them into a jar.

"Holy water," he explained. "I ain't going into that camp but I'll find a tree and give a bit of cover. If they survive meet me at the hill with the red oak we passed."

Jhyrran nodded.

The minotaur-chumera shifted back into his human form and started climbing down through the darkness. In the night it would be easy to trip over a root or branch and break an arm before the battle.

As soon as he found some flat open group he would shift back and charge into the back of the undead horde with the others.

 

[Josai]

"Well," Josai said small and to herself. "Not exactly what I was expecting but!" she grinned and looked over to the big shape shifter. "All plans turn to shit, as soon as we make contact," she winked at the big man, and hefted up her pack. Hurried forward behind the other two.

Bolts of lightning forked down from the sky. The energies of the initial spell redoubled by Josai's focusing ward, and minor ritual.

Ahead, scores of skelingtons were scorched by each heavenly trident that fell from the dark clouds. Gave the air a charge of galvanic energy. More to work with. So long as she could keep account of the anomaly in their party.

---

In the thick of the skeletal throng, the alternate party was still alive. "Shit! They got Rupert!" Markus cried out, bashing one skeleton's knees out, before he whipped forth a fork of lightning that scythed through a line of foes.

Geffo, their Satyr bashed another back with his shield. Cracked one down across the top of the... well skull using his mace. "Kyeep a'movin!" he said as he bulled one back, sprung into the air and cracked another's skull right open with a stomp.

Citri, their rogue, slunk through the crowd. Not much caring for their fate, as the idiot mage kept blasting foes and drawing the horde's ire. Till she bumped right into one eyeless fuck. Near screeched, but pushed it back, and knocked its leg out from under it.

Wings thrummed through the sky, and a lithe body dove about a fresh spear of lightning come crash down. Teelan, a harpy, shift up, wings wide as they caught the thermal wind crashing where the bolt fell. "I can still see the bastard!" she cried out.

"If yee'aa go after him-" another bash, and spring. A shamble-man ran its rusty blade across a furlined thigh. "Fyackin Hyeel!"

A thrum thrum of bowstring saw two arrows crack through the skeleton soldier's neck. Its head rolled claean off. Citri nod to Geffo.

Geffo nod in return.

"Blast us an exit, mage boy!" Citri hollered as she dodged one skeleton's swipe.

"Like its so fucking easy!" Markus cried back. Thwacking another skeleton down.


Izara Jhyrann Maranae Sylvian Artesto

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

Perhaps Sylvian shouldn't have been surprised that they'd all end up throwing away any semblance of an elegant and surgical plan. With as many conflicting personalities as this party had, he'd doubted from the beginning they'd work with any sort of cohesion. So it was with a resigned smile on his face that he watched his partners one by one charge headlong into the fracas below.

Eventually, Artesto was the only one who remained. It gave him a moment of peace, a calm before the storm. The man unsheathed his blade, a gleaming silver longsword that shone with the reflection of the witch's lightning overhead. On its hilt, the brand of the Anirian Guard still displayed itself, though faded. Sylvian brought the sword up and gently placed his lips upon the side.

"Guide my hand, Azia."

Sylvian took off running towards the steep bank leading down into the sea of bones and death, not wishing to keep his companions waiting on him for long. As he moved down the slope, he dropped his hips into a squat and allowed his weight to carry him down towards the fray in a slide, his boots tearing through the dirt beneath him as he readied his blade to shear through any undead with the luck of crossing him.

In time he would hit that wall of bone, the cracking of marrow and sinew against his edge filling his ears as he sprung up and spun himself, clearing all of the reanimated within his reach. Without magic, and only human, he walked along the knife's edge, relying on instinct and years of experience as he hacked and slashed his way towards the opposite party.

Izara Josai Maranae Jhyrann

 

[Maranae]

Darkness was no deterrent. There was more than superficial similarity between her eyes and those of the felines she did not quite resemble. At least, until she did; as her stride lengthened and she slipped through the darkness she changed in subtle ways. Where once there were nails, now there were claws. Her teeth lengthened, and the muscles of her body seemed to flow oddly.

When she reached the undead army, it was as the blur of a big cat ambushing prey. She did not strike at anything, choosing instead to slip between the tide where she could and shove aside those that would not move fast enough for her liking. It was that more than anything else that slowed her down.

The skeletons and rotten flesh were more or less mindless on their own. Maybe, if the one controlling them was less practiced in their dark arts, she might have managed to push through. But the necromancer was not and she didn't. She managed to get a hundred yards in amongst them before the one controlling them noticed another in their midst and as soon as that happened, she found herself in a predicament.

Creatures turned to face her and present a wall of bone and stinking meat. Grasping hands reached for her as she shoved hard against things that had long since passed their best-by date; her hands punched through rotten flesh and the spaces between bones.

Skeletal fingers grasped, sank ivory into her pale flesh. The pain was that of someone else. Distant and difficult to come to terms with. Her blood painted white pink; ran down her arms and her torso. Instinctively, she wrenched that which clutched her until the horrifying sound of bony fingers pulling free of her flesh with a sucking sound found itself repeated over and over. Her forward momentum halted; she used that which gripped her arms as a cudgel and smashed dozens of undead to pieces with other undead, ripping arms and legs apart and smashing them into paste on others of their kith and kin near to hand.

But the tide was without end and she was only one animal amongst thousands more. Their weight pressed her back as the necromancer pulled more of its attention from elsewhere to swat at this one annoying fly. A fly with teeth, but still a fly in the grand scheme.

 

[Izara]

It made sense that the group would end up separated, even if they all tried to get to the same destination. They had no plan other than to help the other group, and each of them fought with a style that was as unique as their backstories.

While the run had been exhilarating, when it came to the dodging (and the unfortunate realization that despite being quick on her feet, moving around too much might get her in a worse position than staying where she was) and the punching, Izara began to find a different feeling mingling inside her gut. There was fear, a longtime friend that liked to show up when it was least needed.

Fear made her body shift into a form that many found to be an ill omen. In her tribe, strength was important, but so was a clear mind. Izzy had a bad habit of losing herself to her instincts, because her instincts always made her only think of her own survival.

She bust through another round of undead, unsure of how many she had gotten rid of, unsure of where she was in correlation to everyone else. She was starting not to care about the specifics, everything in her head going quiet except for one notion: fight.