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

 

[Faramund]

The fight was over, the beast slain, and yet still they had work to do. 'Ain't no rest for the wicked,' sighed Faramund, turning to hurry after Josai and Isander, his boots squelching with every step. Muscles he didn't know he had burned as he waded into the reeds in search of his canoe, or what was left of it.

Damn thing nearly threw me into next week, he mused, choking on the hydra's death-stench, and that of the bog itself.

'Bloody reeds!' He cursed. 'What kind of fool-ass looks at a place like this and decides to take up residence?' Madmen and lepers, Faramund reckoned. Shaking his head, he turned to see Syr Aarno standing nearby. 'Do you still possess a raft, Syr?' He asked, forcing his way through the mud and mess kicked up by the hydra's passing. 'Mine's... well, all over the place, sorry as I am to say.' He was damned lucky he hadn't been shattered alongside. 'Are you... y'know?'

He gestured, unable to bring himself to say it.

Are you okay?

Aarno Isander Josai

 

[Aarno]

A call for aid, three resolute echoes throught the marsh, saw Syrs Josai and Isander away. Himself was no Dawnling and what with his canoe that he’d backed onto shore mere moment ago now distancing without him, he resolved to staring into its wake.

Now what—

Casting a cursory look about, he sheathed his sword. The reeds were crackling and whipping about as one hassled amidst them, furiously searching for means to traverse from their small isle. It was starting to look awfully like no such thing existed, nor was about to manifest from thin air.

With a calm, expressionless submission about him, he regarded Faramund as the man finally seemed to speak at him directly, confirming their sorry circumstance. What was failed to be asked was responded in but a shrug.

” We are fresh out of ways to get out of here dry, it appears. ” He hummed, belatedly realizing how meaningless it was to at least one of them. Whomever currently dripped water from having been thrown in it several times.

” Didn’t think I’d have to go swimming on this errant, but — ” A sigh left him as he dipped off his helm, depositing it underarm. A weariness was burrowing into his joints, his stare growing darker as it looked into the murky expanse about them and saw not a ripple of movement. There were barely audible voices somewhere within there, but he hadn’t it in him to care and try to listen.

Ah well—

He dropped his arse into the grass, shoving his helm down next to him. A great exhale was blown out and a gloved hand swept over the top of his hair, smoothing it down.

” Sorry — I’ll have to sit down a moment. ” Though frankly, I’d much rather be fully horizontal. If only it weren’t for that taking it, perhaps, a touch too far when it came to preserving any dignity.

Faramund Josai Isander

 

[Josai]

"Metisa help me," the young Allirian said through clenched teeth. Complexion pallid, face streaked with sweat and grime. Eyelids aflutter as his pupils threatened to roll into the back of his skull.

Arietta stared wide eyed at the scene, her breath caught in her lungs as the magicks between them thinned.

"Talk to him, Arietta, keep him with us," Josai ordered as she took the regent offered by Isander. A twist of the wrist, and a dab of the oil before she corked it, spread it round her hands and began to tie down a tourniquet about the young man's thigh.

Miguelo made a whimper as the bind came tight.

"We need a litter, Isander, Castollen, be quick!"

Isander Faramund Aarno

 

[Faramund]

'Don't think dry was ever an option.' The swampy air was too damn close and humid for that. Faramund had been sweating before his dunking. If not for the leeches, he might've been okay with it. As was, he was fucking fuming.

Squelching over to Aarno, the big knight sat his big ass down in the grass alongside him.

A dry spot? How swell! Hocking up a mouthful of swamp water, Faramund spat it out at his feet. His mail and weapon belt felt twice as heavy as it normally did, and that was before he accounted for fatigue. 'Whose idea was it to come here again?' He asked Aarno, the muscles in his neck and back twitching uncomfortably. The knight huffed.

'I'm getting old,' he said, 'old... and slow.'

There was shouting, somewhere off in the near-distance. Bugs and bullfrogs buzzed and bounced about around them, swarming the dead hydra. Faramund saw a reed-rattler slither through the mud not a dozen paces away from where he sat, heading for the large corpse. To feast, probably.

'We need to burn that fucking thing!' he growled, eyeing the headless hydra and the man sitting in the dirt beside him with equal animosity. 'Got any more tricks up your sleeve? I'm all out.'

Aarno Josai Isander

 

[Aarno]

His stare remained fixed at the nothingness occupying middle distance, not a flicker upon him as the other man made as far as to join him wherein he sat dejectedly. But he did notice, felt it, quite completely.

Old and slow. That finally pulled him from what appeared a stupor, a snort of both knowing and amusement his initial response as he merely shook his head. Plenty fast you looked to me, climbing that hydra just now— Despite Faramund’s tone, coloured dark by what he deemed irritation and weariness, he hazarded a sidelong glance at him. He studied his face half in secret for some seconds, watching a yet another thought form as the dark eyes refreshed on the carnage a meager couple steps away from them. Once their stare met his, with something of an attitude etched about the tone, he held fast and weathered it with a measure of satisfaction about his slight smile.

Shared fault that they were fucked, wasn’t it now.

“ No. I’m hardly a magician gifted as such. “ He admitted, tossing his head carelessly as his figure inclined backwards, settling to lean against an arm. “ But tricks aside, simple means— “ His free hand went to the little satchel at his belt, snaking past the flap and searching blind within. In short order, a little roll of brown soft leather was pulled out, the lot secured with a tie at the middle.

“ Got a firestriker, flint and amadou. But those will hardly get you started, if we’ve but damp tinder otherwise. “ And that hydra looks large. He offered the roll at Faramund, half in daring that he try to make a go of it no matter the odds.

Yrittänyttä ei laiteta. No shame in trying.

“ Suppose if we don’t find any and fail — “ He shrugged one shoulder. “ At least we’ve both the fact of being ‘old and slow’ on our side. “

Faramund Josai

 

[Josai]

Josai grimaced as blood gushed from the wound, and something in the mud crawled nearby.

"The litter!" she snapped.

Arietta looked over her shoulder, and saw Syr Castollen, alone, and quick at his work. He hacked down at a branch as best he could. Again and again he hacked. But only one man to the work made progress doubly slow.

"It won't be ready in time, Syr Josai," Arietta communicated.

Josai grit her teeth, brows furrowed and stare dark as a storm. "Bloody fucking," she let out a hard huff. "I'm sorry, Miguello," the spear witch drew in a deep breath. Her eyes came aglow with winter's white and snow-storm blue. Her breath let out as a cloud of frozen mist and where her hand lay, came coated in ice.

In a crackle snap and hiss of glacial cold, the mangled leg would be frozen solid up to knee.

Miguello's voice dried up in his throat. Felt the cold bite deep into his bones before the pain blead into nothingness. He let out a blood curdling scream as his leg died in frost.

Drenched in cold sweat, Miguelo's eyes rolled back up into his skull, and his head lulled down in fast slump.

Arietta stared wide eyed.

"Go, and help Syr Castollen," Josai said through panted breath. Frozen droplets of sweat stuck to the side of her face. Her eyes, still alight with frost's light, and her lips crackled with winter's bite as steamed breath pushed out from her chilled lungs.

The young Knight nod, and moved to help the elder knight construct a litter.

Josai felt the slip of Arietta's connection. The strain of her own casting, doubled now without her link to a fellow knight. She uncorked the regent concocted by Syr Isander. Sniffed at it. Poured it onto her hands and worked it unto where the ice met still living flesh.

If the boy was lucky, he'd miss an infection.

But there was little lucky about any of this.

Faramund Aarno Isander

 

[Faramund]

'Where there's a will, there's a way.' Taking the items off Aarno's hands, the dawnling stared at the dead hydra, more annoyed than anything. Gonna be a bitch to burn, he mused, shrugging. 'Alright, then. Wish me luck!'

Standing, Faramund waded out into the blood-black shallows, the mud and mire slowing him down. The death-stink wafting from the carcass was enough to make him gag, but he fought the feeling down. Aarno was watching, and he would be damned if he showed weakness in front of that blithe bastard.

Vaulting up onto the dead beast's back, Faramund climbed until he reached the tattered remnants of flesh that had once borne the weight of three heads.

Kneeling down, he wrestled with his belt pouches for a moment before producing a number of earthenware vessels containing oils and powders one might deem worthy of carrying into a godforsaken swamp. 'Should do the trick nicely,' he smiled, twisting the stopper from the first vessel.

Carefully, Faramund began applying the oil to the insides of the hydra's three throats. The black powder followed. After each vessel ran dry, the knight would thrust them down the hydra's gullet. For good measure, he assured himself, certain that Aarno would be the one to burn the next stinking, shit-smeared corpse.

With flint and fire-striker in hand, the dawnling set to nurturing a flame. 'You may want to move back a little!' He called out. 'Or not! Hells, you can move closer, if you want!'

Grinning, the dawnling's eyes flashed as a flame sparked to life in his hands. Steady, he urged himself, all too aware of the gasses trapped inside the hydra's bloated stomach. Here we go! Lowering the flame, Faramund dashed backwards as it took to the powder. There was a burst of light behind him, and a whoosh of air as something caught.

The explosion, when it came, rocked the knight off his feet and left him facedown in the muck.

Aarno Josai

 

[Aarno]

He clambered up himself at a latency, groaning softly beneath his breath for the effort it took. His helm yet remained in the ground as he settled to stand and observe, not about to move a single muscle to help. If there was anyone he’d be just on the way of, it’d be Syr Faramund.

The man certainly wasted no time, fast cresting the Hydra by the time himself had barely made it from the ground. Whatever the blazes his fellow Sworn was presently doing, he hadn’t the faintest, but it wasn’t looking good. If those are what I think they are — One had to judge any man mighty bold just carrying them around about the belt. Terribly on brand.

At the yelling, he merely inclined his neck and smiled pleasantly, voice elevated lest the man not hear him over his hassling.

“ While am flattered that you’d seek to coax me, think am mighty good out here — “ Or rather, further away, now that you mention it. He glanced behind himself as he took a couple steps back, for good measure. “ Not that am not tempted. If only for the sole fact I’d like to get a closer look at what in the bloody hells— “

Both the flame and the fast-moving man had escaped him, but the explosion did not. It was nigh embarrassing how much he flinched, fighting the essential urge to flatten himself to the ground as airborne flesh and grass barely managed to reach him where he stood. The remaining carcass made way for fire, coloured sparks fizzing betwixt scales that tore apart gently, consumed in an agonizing graduality.

It smelled awful, sour and sulphuric, of boiling bog and rotten flesh. Nothing like a roast.

“ Hey! You’re missing it, Syr Faramund— “ He declared upon spotting his companion that’d rather hilariously fallen mere seconds ago. Before he could stop himself, he was already approaching, in a rather jaunty hop. If am lucky, his gob is full of dirt.

“ The fruits of your excellent labour. You ought gaze upon it. “ Grinning, he knelt and clapped the man on the shoulder twice.

“ A thrilling blast, that. Whatever your original plan for those reagents was, I dare not even fathom. “

Faramund Josai

 

[Isander]

A haunting sight graced Isander's return to the makeshift camp. Fresh screams sent him running back from the surrounding marshlands where he had sought to gather herbs to ease the squire's pain—of which he knew only yarrow as specified, and even with such considerations his woodcraft suffered in the damp.

He took hasty account of the situation: the squire, maimed. Josai at work like a bar of iron bent to the task. The staunch backs of Knights Castollen and Arietta knelt in service of a litter.

The scrape of yarrow in Isander's palm seemed piteous by compare. He clenched at it, numb, and lumbered the last paces back to his companions. It took some seconds to stiffen his own jaw, to stuff the herbs down an opening in his pouch. Words failed him in the antecedent, and he set himself to work besides the others, tying a bit of cloth and hemp to a bundle of lathes.


Josai Faramund Aarno