Knights of Anathaeum Nine Heads is Better than Three

[Aarno]

The witch was pointed in her aid, lending strength and precision to a strike that had been neither, corrupted by urgent haste. His grip on the blade was nothing short of a death-clutch, metal on the gauntlets clacking as steel made impact with all too much flesh, tendon, bone and cartilage. The hiss in the wound was a warning he heeded, drawing back the sword and turning the cheek of the helm at the spell as it worked further, bursting to shrapnel. Against his metal it was but a harmless patter, like hail, and the moment it subsided he struck again just to make sure.

The neck appeared to not rise the head again, leaving it bobbing in the water. Josai’s voice gave command and another, thankfully, took upon himself to make it so. Breathing deep, a mix of disbelief and relief, he gave a curse and sought for Faramund that’d just managed to crawl out of the water again. The man was soaked through, hair clinging to the skin of his face just as his surcoat did to his frame, exposing every ring of mail beneath. It looked positively — burdening. How he’d not drowned was beyond him.

And even then, having climbed a mountain of a monster and gone swimming thrice, the man yet had both his wits and vicious tenacity, striking with both blade and fist as what was assumed dead struck out one last time. Aarno hadn’t but to remain in his place, watching in what he had decided was probably admiration, despite the general look of shock about his face. Conflicted.

He managed but an acknowledging hum at the declaration, averting his stare from Syr Faramund and letting it bounce betwixt Syrs Josai and Isander in turn.

“ Everyone in one piece? You lot took a little dip there. “

Faramund Josai Isander

 

[Josai]

Josai let out a sigh of relief, and her hands loosed some about the shaft of her spear, whilst the obsidian sphere came to a stillness.

"Whole and ready," Josai replied, sharp and automatic.

The silver bell at the end of her spear chimed.

A horn blast shook through the air, and Josai's eyes searched for the sound through the mire and the trees.

Twice the instrument sounded... Josai's breath caught in her throat. The third blast came.

"The second hunting party calls for aid!" she shift forward, no time to take in the rot of their prey. No time to cut loose any samples, or harvest fresh blight samples.

One of the shallow hulled canoe's had miraculously survived the thrash and whip of battle. Was still in one piece, minus a splintered chunk of wall along the starboard. She'd thrown her spear in, then her hat. Robes still laden with murk, she heaved the craft out onto the water.

"A Dawnling, on me! Haste!" she was already half in the craft, hands quick to find the oar.
---

At the site of the second party, they would find a second hydra felled. The Knights, Syrs Castollen and Arietta of Dawn, whole and ready, as was was Syrs Elonfir of dusk. Squire Miguelo, however, had his leg crushed by one of the beast's jaws. The sight was gruesome. Mangled and torn.

That the newly knighted Arietta was the only magicker among them, tending to the wound best she could, was a credit to her.

"We need to find better ground," Josai ordered. "A place to recoup, and tend to Miguelo,"

What would happen if they failed to act need not be said.

"I can make him stable the moment, but we needs find regents," the Witch went on. "Yarrow, sage beard, Dawn's lilly," she listed things that needed gathering. Her hands placed over the boy's leg. Her lips half spilling over with ancient words. "Now!" she said whence the pause came.

Isander Aarno Faramund

 

[Isander]

Isander, given scant time to catch his breath, made haste in gathering his spear and shaking loose the waterlogged fabric that accosted him. Gait staggered and quick, he took oar in hand and followed his companions into the canoe. Once they joined the second hunting party, he found his arms thick with fatigue, his chest brimming with the bog's blighted stink.

Rolling back his sleeves, he unhooked maille and popped out the fastenings of his gauntlets. A laborious process made necessary in the interim between hunts. Hands laid bare, he tucked the gauntlets in a loop at his belt, knelt before the injured squire.

"I've small eye for herbs," he said, the admission etching a sad line across his brow. A tepid utterance followed, oiling a translucent substance over his palms; a drizzle of magick coalesced there, pooled and dripped viscous where his fingers failed to catch it. He let it seep into an opened skin, corked it, and offered it to the spear bearer.

"Here, this may aid in stabilizing the lad. I'll do what I can. Syr Elonfir, relay the circumstances to Syrs Aarno and Faramund." His voice firmed, resolution sharp on his eyes. Patting his hands clean of the conjured tincture, he stepped away, neck hunched as he scanned the area. Thus did he away, back to his companion's answering nod.


Faramund Aarno Josai