Completed Snake in the Eagle's Shadow

[Bebin Theros]

Blue was the room, and ink were the shadows that clung to the corners and stones of the wall. Pale moons' light and the feint candescence of stars turned to beam of light as it passed through the studies window, with no flame of candle or torch there to rob it of any of its cold luminance. Only a rat's small shape scurried across the floor. The tiny creature came to stop amidst the ray of silver glow, its black-globe eyes wide as it reared up onto its hind legs. Its whiskers shook, and it rose its little nose up to smell the air.

A shape, long and broad and fluid as it moved, fell to the rim of the balcony, gathered there and rose up. Two eyes, azure-mixed-stars, burned there in the thick shadow of a hood. Shimmered and turned tranquil

The little rat squeaked and ran away.

Long legs slipped from the sill, and strong hands pushed the broad body forward, bootless and onto the floor. Tall was the form that moved through the dark study, and it came to stop before an old oaken desk. Carefully, quietly, hands began to manipulate scrolls, open tomes, flip through pages, spread maps. They tucked one tome away beneath their garb. The shadow worked in meticulous silence, till one scroll unfurled. The wilds mapped in detail. Xs marked deep into the tree line. Nests, dens, old growths, fertile lands.

"Generations' worth," the words fell in whisper from Bebin's mouth.

The door creaked open, the Pursuant's eyes snapped up to see a lordling staring at him wide eyed, candle in glass covered lamp, and words caught in his throat. "G-guar-" A dart flew from snapping cloak folds, needle nose imbedded into his neck to leave a blue feather plume there, like poison flower bloomed in pride. The lordling's mouth grew slack, and he stumbled back.

Bebin was there before he fell. But the lamp light slipped and glass cracked against stone floor.

"What was that?!" he heard some voice call from the distance.

"It came from up the stairs," some smaller voice said. What followed was a rustle of bodies and hushed grunts and hard whispers. Boots and armor began to clamor up the way. Bebin shut the door, still quiet.

The candle had let loose a hungry little fire, that slowly crackled and happily spread about the old Kaliti carpet. Bebin smirked as he dragged the Lordling to a safer spot. "So much for all my careful planning," he said beneath his breath, and dumped the unconscious lordling on the ground with a thud. The fire was picking up. Quick strides took him to a heavy armoire he grabbed with both hands, and his large frame flexed as he heaved the thing to tip over.

Wood and metal crashed and clamored as the structure slammed against the stone, the sides cracked and splintered and it lay against the door in sturdy heap.

"In here!" A voice called out as boots clacked and stepped up stone stairs in a hurry.

Quickly, he rushed to the desk, snatched up the velum map, and began to furl it up as he made for the window. He tucked the scroll down beneath his leathers, and hopped up onto the window sil, frog legged, he looked back, his hood still warn, he saw how the fire was spreading. He narrowed his eyes. They came shut, and his hand waved across the sight of the fire. It grew dimmer. Dimmer. It choked and sputtered out.

The guards were ramming the door now. Heavy, plank bending thumps. Bebin cast his eyes out the window, and down the tower stones some twenty meters below. He bowed his head, and his hands and bare feet turned scaley and clawed. The door behind him cracked open.

"There, at the window!"

The Basilisk slipped down into the night.

"Sound the alarm!"

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Waiting was all part of the game. Waiting for orders, waiting for a sign, waiting for a new situation to break out, it was all part of the job description that Montbank had curated for himself. In the early months it had been full of worry these moments, moments stacked upon moments of patience and discipline. Of concern for those who might be out there thwarting the intent of his comrades. Medical and rescue duty was one thing. But acting as support for an operation? It wasn't the immediate rush to action that was split moment decisions, it was befitting to possess a calm mind, to know consignment Montbank understood this to be true.

He had read of many a commander who had to make the unnerving decision to simply do nothing but wait with the resources they had at their disposal, be it lives of men or the arrows in quivers. Waiting was a vital skill to one who would act decisively and effectively.

And so, the winged warrior waited.

Worry would exhaust the mind, leave it drained, and so knowing this, Montbank remained still. His wings were relaxed, yet his eyes were focused on the moon illuminated scene before him. The changing of guards. The yawns. The resting against polearms. Mouths moving slowly in chatter, dice being rolled, windows being sealed. Montbank's orange eyes absorbed all from the far off distance that he had commandeered for himself, a small ridge in a nearby mountain to which he spied from.

Montbank accepted that there were elements out of his control. That which was in his control had been prepared in the space of the monastery. And if there was an resource at his disposal which was wanting then that was just part of the accepted duty before him. Missions were won through proper preparation. The right vial, the right resource, the right weight capacity. But so too was dealing with the changing situation as presented with what one had to had. He watched on, his eyes well suited to the dark.

And then, the mood changed. Mouths worked quicker, as guards snapped to attention, a flurry of feet and movement as an alarm spread through them. Montbank felt the lurching dread in his stomach which was forced to assume a more useful emotion as he steeled himself to the potentials. Rescue in the direct fashion would be impossible, he knew he couldn't airlift all those involved. To take one knight when their pair remained would be a death sentence, unless injury was absolutely critical. No. Montbank understood that this was a mission of support. In what form that came was up to his tactical mind.

He clutched at the various tools in his harness, which clung about the plate mail that he had grown accustomed to wearing. This was not a light setup to be wearing. He had anticipated action in his contingencies. Vials of grey clouded liquid hung heavy at his hips, a wand of willow wrapped with parchment with simple augmenting spells, the head of an electric eel. All ammunition for what could be mustered, if he Montbank was ready to apply himself in the cause of his comrades.

But for now, he waited. His eyes looked down and waited for a sign that it was time to act. To act too soon would spend his resources. To act too late...

Montbank didn't think on that. He remembered the commanders that commanded volleys at just the critical moment to balance both range and effectiveness. He held himself in check, and waited on as the scene played out in all the assembly of alarm that had been triggered.

Even in Montbank's observation did he not see the one who took to the skies at the call of alarm that spied for the intruder's escape by ground. That, along with Montbank's own actions, would come later.

 

[Bebin Theros]

Claw scraped down against stone, as the body of a man-par-turned-beast raced down in a spray of gravel and loose concrete. The world below Bebin raced up to greet him. A wall of tiles and rock that would surely break him.

"Down there, down there, ready your aim boys! Ready your aim!"

The Knight of Anathaeum loosed his claws and sprung off with lizard's kick.

"Fire, fire!" crossbow arms snapped forth, mechanisms let loose with a violent force. The missiles streaked out and clattered against stone.

Bebin crashed against the tiles, tucked into his own frame. The tilework cracked and splintered, as if a stone had struck it, and Syr Bebin rolled up to his feet, his footfalls heavy, smashed tile beneath his steady stride.

One of the crossbowmen, who knew the better part of timing, traced the frame of the brigande who dare break into their keep. His eyes narrowed as they measured the distance between their vantage point, and the rat that scurried away. His finger pulled the triger arm of the crossbow, and the machine spit out a bolt that streaked forth.

Caught the figure clean in the back.

It pinged, and the bolt spun off as if it had struck steel.

Bebin let out long breath as he continued his run, the tiles neath his feet no longer cracking and breaking under his weight but ratling with the quick shift of his step.

"Bloody bastard shrugged a bolt..." the sharp eyed sniper grumbled.

---

"Well, shit," Syr Sando cursed to himself as the alarmbells rang and the sound of armored footfalls hurried and scurried all about. "Must've been a bit of bad luck then," the old scraggly dawnling huffed beneath his breath, as he slunk into the shadows of a nearby alleyway. "Guess we just-"

"Halt!" a sharp voice called out. Too pointed to be anything more than a guard who caught trace of the easy walking knight beneath the wide brim of a featherd hat.

"Nope, can't be talkin to me," Sando muttered to himself, and didn't miss a stride.

"I said-"

"Jefferies, this way! They caught sight of the bastard over in Larkan Square!"

"But-" a growl from the guardsman, as he looked to where the hat dawning man had just been. "Ah piss, alright,"

Sando peddled on, with hurry in his stride as he moved down the street. Easy confidence could only get you out of so many binds. Not that he'd found many binds so tight. With a flick of the wrist he whipped out a long thin blade with an elmwood handle. A mercy dagger, though it was inlayed with runes that glowed a faint gold and red. A flick of his wrist, easy as one, then two, and a little seed of light streaked up into the air.

It burst into a golden bloom.

Time to cause a ruckus. He was sure the shimmering light read.​

---

Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Owl eyes sharpened as the signal met his superhuman gaze. A rush of adrenaline, a quickening of the heart. A deep breath in, a relief of tension in his soul that was replaced by the thrill of replacing patience with action.

White wings beat silently, elevating the warrior to his required position in the sky. The currents of air were proving more difficult than usual. Swooping, careening, slicing through the night air, he breathed heavy with exertion. His wings were powerful to the cause, his mind determined to the deeds to be done.

He surveyed the scene on the ground. Saw how the people scurried and turned corners in desperate motions to escape capture or death by bolt. His fighting spirit was alight with deeds to be performed, he knew that he had to deliver in this hour.

The first maneuver was designed obfuscate, to confuse the foe. It had to be precise. Montbank knew himself that he could very well cause more harm than good if he placed this incorrectly.

Montbank planned the dive. Visualized the magic that would be required, both in thrust of flight and application of area denial. The tips of his wings ignited into crisp glowing white as they became sharper and more clean cutting of the air, the wind resistance altered so as to allow him passage at stupefying speed.

He was not aware that other eyes narrowed at the illumination of his wings, and began to give chase...

Montbank reached for the vials of grey liquid and set about the first stage of the attack run.

Just like we've rehearsed.

Quicker than eyes could grasp comprehension, Montbank swooped low above the streets and released the vials of grey liquid. A thick smog engulfed the area, denying sight to the foes that pursued his comrades. Where there had been clear line of sight to the infiltrates was now the thick unnatural grey clouds that lingered heavy in the streets. It expanded out with unnerving lashes of sight denial presence, curling about itself in thick relentless plumes. He made his exit, dipping out from the low altitude to deliver the smoke bombs, and hovered in place as he ensured he was in range for the next step.

Swiftly now the rest.

The wand was produced, a thing of willow that would prevent his comrades from being lost in the smoke. Montbank spoke each comrade's name in quick succession, providing them an awareness of the cloud but not it's denial of sight.

And at the last name being uttered did sharpened talons sink deep into Montbank's back.

The owl knight to screech out in pain as it punctured his plate.

Montbank struggled to dislodge himself from the talons and propel himself away. The uncertainty of what had just assailed him filled him with fear, and perhaps it was this that allowed him to free himself in desperate motion. He turned to face the competitor for the skies, his wings beating fast and swiftly, but blood already running from the wounds in his back all the quicker for it.

A black beak snapped viciously at him as he turned, and he pushed himself further in the sky to avoid his face being mutilated.

A griffon with rider, regal and furious, arcane and mysterious lingered lower in the sky space. Already a spell was being concocted by the rider as a staff was pointed at his direction that carried pulses of threatening red light. This was an all too new experience for Montbank, who until this point had never faced another who had flight in combat. The griffon was more beastly than he in appearance and ferocity, and in this moment Montbank felt the cold touch of fear as his eyes dilated at the suddenness, the shock, of having air superiority being denied to him.

In response to that fear, Montbank drew sword defiantly and screeched. He decided quickly that while the griffon might be ferocious, that he was not as quick or as swift as he. Montbank's wings glowed white again, and away he went high into the sky, pursued by blast of crimson magic and powerful beats of far larger wings.

Montbank did not know if he could complete the rest of the supporting action to his comrades as his senses were shocked by the all too near blast of crimson light that the sky mage cast out.

The struggle for the skies had begun.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

With the flash of golden light crackling in the air, the guards of the keep were misdirected, unsure of where to go as some called for the rooftops, and others called for Larkan Square . Syr Sando had gone from his position. Dawnling that he was, the way he slipped and slinked, it was clear the man danced along the edge of twilight.

Obfuscation and misdirection.

Keys to any successful operation. The Pursuant knew this, as did all members of their sortie. And as his bare reptilian feet raced along the rooftops, he caught sight of the white streaks of their arial specialist's approach. Wings aglow with a cutting white. Just as they had rehearsed. Bebin's legs pumped faster, his arms too. Intelligence under-coat, he had to make the escape.

They all did.

Silvery glints reflected in the moonlight, fallen from white feathers spread proud in shift and ascent and hover. Bebin threw himself from the rooftops with quick inhalation, felt his spine pop and shift as bones and muscles changed, slightly more.

The glass vials smashed against the ground, their glass glittered in Bebin's eye and the gaseous clouds of grey and white billowed out in a tidal wash of blinding vapors. A curtain, through which Bebin passed, the chemical stench singed his nose, brought tears to his eyes, even though he kept them shut until he felt the wisps of alchemical loch shift and pulse.

His eyes came open, and he saw his sworn kin gathered within the veil Montank had born. Sando, Lefelen, and Chadwick. All accounted for. Minor wounds suffered, but able bodied. A nod of acknowledgement, and quick snapping gestures set them to move when a horrid screech pierced their cloud of fizzling silence.

Agony gripped them. Their eyes cast up. They saw the enemy that had descended upon their brother in arms. The man who was so oft their winged hero, caught in the claws of an enemy, blood run down his side in trails.

Discipline. Even under crisis.

They moved with haste, through the veil of smoke and out unto the shadowed streets as wings flapped and snapped and the sounds of spellcraft sizzled and hissed overhead. Together, the Duskers whispered words of shadow and light in hushed chants.

Come light, across the still waters,
Come shadow, dance across the waves,
Loch's trace, formless and without place,

Bebin spoke the names of those three about him, and one by one their forms turned formless, like rippling water, reflecting the things around them. Cloaked by the Shimmering Veil of the Mirrored Surface.

But minutes they would have, hidden to most eyes.

---

Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

A lance of burning red scarcely missed Theo as he desperately tried to learn how to perform evasive maneuvers in these desperate moments. He dipped and sank in the air, and then arced along an air current which carried him true and faster than his foe in spiralling motion that defied the griffon's turning circle. Yet with more distance gained, it allowed further tracking from the spell, or so Theo suspected.

He turned his head a full one eighty to look his foes in the eye as he tried to gain some altitude.

The cowl of the sky mage hid eyes that only flared with the same red as his magic, which did so again in a shot that was wildly inaccurate this time for virtue of Montbank's changing velocity. The griffon however, was clear and consistent in bestial rage. It wanted to eviscerate. It considered him a lesser bird of prey to be bested in the skies, and Theo could not help but think that this was a true thing of the skies. But even with this thought, he did not think himself imposter.

He thought himself as rightful competitor.

Despite his wounds, he knew he had the resources required to defeat this foe.

He snapped his beak three times, activating the charm of loch communication that hung tight to his chest that allowed him to communicate to Bebin directly. His voice was direct and lacked the panic his body experienced. His mind was trained like any other knight of the order to overcome the challenges of turmoil upon the psyche.

A plan formed.

"Basilisk this is Bank. Air space contested. Enemy flyers must be shut down to ensure successful egress. Standby."

While Montbank's understanding of aerial combat might not have been as comprehensive as the griffon rider's understanding of the skies, Montbank had an advantage the sky mage did not.

Solidarity.

Montbank and his pursuer danced for desperate moments, pivoting, diving, rising, soaring, dangerously close to annihilation before pushing away from the threat, a weave of magic and agility. A trail of blood that only set the griffon to further desire to feast. Montbank turned his head to judge his position in comparison to his comrades, and decided that this was the moment to unleash the gambit.

Montbank clutched at the electric heel head and wolfed it down in quick avian gulps. A blast was already spiraling towards him, a far more powerful thing than had previously been sent in size and luminosity. Montbank chained the material component to his will, and felt the rush of energy as his chest glowed with electrical prowess.

No words delivered in defiance. Just a beak wide open and full of lightning that spewed forth in a violent torrent that engulfed that red lance of power and held it in it's tracks. And yet, the mage was not content with leaving it so arrested. He urged the spell onwards, and little by little, did the red lance inch it's way through the electrical retort.

The knight of the skies sent another message and prayed it would not be his last as he held the line.

"Requesting high intensity blast at my foe's co-ordinate. Over."

 

[Bebin Theros]

Ghosts traced in Loch's light hurried across the cobblestone streets. Passed guards who marched and and ran in the direction they had last been seen.

Silent as they moved. Silent as mist swirls and rolling fog. No need for greater violence on the ground. But on the wall.

"Archers! Aim!" an officer called, trying to bring order to their own defense as Montbank danced upon deadly currents.

Bebin need not pulse his mind's thought, his sworn kin already in motion. Syr Sando pulled quick arrows from his quiver, still cloaked in the reflective light, he fired. The bowstring thwanged once, twice, thrice. One wide, two hit their mark.

The archers loosed, arrows sailed too wide off the mark of the avian knight. The six men still left, so focused on their task they saw not the casualty of their fellows as warheads punched into the soft spots of their chainmail. The officer turned his eyes down, traced the trajectory of the shot, and stood with mouth agape when he saw no true shape before him.

Before he could holler, a steel head glint beneath the moon and punched through his eye.

Chadwick was already up the stairs, the shimmering cloak broke, but his sword was unseathed, and already cut down one man with a wrathcut to the leg. A quick upturn of the sword set the blade long before him in heron's beak, and he thrust it forward, its spear-like point punched through the gap neath the guardsman's chin.

A blue steel blade flashed out, moon crescent in shape. It caught the down swing of a mace, just enough to through it off its crushing course. A punch dagger, Katar, flashed forward, made of liquid magick that poured from saphire jewel fixed upon silver vambrace. The loch blade poured through the chain armor, and turned to ice within the man's flesh. He gasped as Syr Bebin kicked him back.

Lefelen stood statue still. Eyes tracking the battle in the skies. Words of power poured from his lips, and his magical focus, a willow wand, was held out, gently before him. With a sweep and flick of the wand's point, a white light glowed bright upon its point.

The air about the gryphon seemed to freeze. Ice gathered round its wings, and a crystal of ice, large and spherical, near the size of a head, slowly formed before the beast, freezing mist pulled toward it as cold winter's hunger focused at that point. It gleamed with the moons light and refracted the power of the dueling rays in wonderous and deathly display.

Syr Sando smirked, and snapped his fingers. A fierce light flashed within the ice crystal. It shattered. Violently. It spat thick shards of ice in wide arc aimed at the Gryphon, for Syr Sando was not armature, and he worked with Lefelen often. Dusk, and Dawn.

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Cold snapping, wings fighting, feathers and flesh and bone pierced and damage rendered true, the griffon's place within the skies was shatteringly denied by the intervention of Montbank's allies. The mage's eyes ignited into stoked coals of outrage as his mount failed to fight the inexorable pull of the ground's embrace. The griffon's beak and talons feebly attempted to rip ice shards from it's wings that so denied it thrust and lift, and more dreadful a realisation, the ability to slow or stop it's descent. It sagged in the skies and began to plummet, it's body slowing, it's head bloodied, it's vision marred by frost and crimson as the driving force of rage was replaced by frigid dread and an abundant sensation of being out of control of the skies it had once so dominated.

The mage struggled to maintain his place upon the beast as they began to fall, throwing his weight to recover balance and command of the situation as the griffon's power was smothered by the embrace of the cold ordinance. But the situation was lost.

The mage looked up and saw the pure white of Montbank's wings gliding high above, the wingspan at first dominating his vision, and then in rapidly escaping moments, those wings became distant and mocking. Their eyes locked, for they both were enhanced for the purpose of fighting within the skies to see beyond those of the ground might.

The embers of rage were not quenched by the losing circumstance within the sky mage's blackened cowl. The robed figure shot his hands up as he lost his footing on the beast and began to freefall, his robes a disorganised mess of cloth, his shadowy cowl remained true however, as did his spiteful hands which called forth energy of bitter retort.

“Don't try it!” Montbank cried and readied his blade for the final act of the doomed man he faced.

“You're coming with me!” the mage screamed over the winds that claimed him as he plummeted, tendrils of burgundy energy wildly racing up even as the mage fell at increasing velocity towards the ground.

“Save yourselves damn you!” Montbank said and readied himself for the contrary effort as his clarity of vision followed the tendrils which raced towards his feet. He beat his wings to gain more altitude as the ensnarement desperately sought to purchase.

Swift cuts to the right were delivered as three tendrils were sheered and dissipated, but Montbank's wounded back slowed his movement to defend his left. His leg was caught, and Montbank felt the weight of the mage as he dangled from the arcane cable.

The griffon tumbled through the skies, unaware, defeated, frozen, soon to crash upon the ground.

The mage held on as Montbank struggled to maintain altitude in the skies with wounded back, precious moments passing as he was weighted down by fatigue, the weight of the mage, and the dragging of the tendrils.

The mage began to speak arcane words. Montbank thoughts raced in realisation.

You want to drain my magic so you can fly?

I'll teach you how to fall!

Montbank tucked his wings in and became as a spear within the skies. Whereas the griffon had tumbled and rotated in the sky, Montbank pierced it and shot through the skies through virtue of a burst of magic and explosion of his white wings to drive him low. The mage's tendrils became slack as Montbank outpaced the fall with his own dive, and as he became dangerously close to the ground ahead of the mage, pitched his tail feathers up and wings, outstretched, arced as the sky knight delivered his cargo in a slingshot into a building.

The mage, caught by reality of his own spellcraft, was killed instantly by the collision, his frame broken, his robes engulfing him, his eyes extinguished and the magic severed.

Montbank was free. But the wounds upon his back made flying painful, and he could feel the blood mar his feathers.

He placed a talon to his ear and relayed a message, the same calm returning to him as his training remaining steadfast.

Situation under control, aerial foes are down, I repeat, down. Thanks for the assist.

He hissed a painful breath and scrunched his face up at what he was about to announce next.

Not sure if I can remain combat effective in the skies. Permission to join you on the ground, will do so without drawing attention. I am wounded, might...might not be able make it back alone.

 

[Bebin Theros]

Steel clashed, rattled, tested guard with slip forward and step back. The curved blade of Bebin, hooked round the long straight of the archer's shorstword as the air swirled and crackled and burst with the energies of wielded magicks.

His eyes focused, lit by the light of loch as they were. A back cut with the false edge saw the man's wrist sliced open, his grip weakened. The archer though, grunt and bulled forward, not ready to die. Again, the bracer glowed a ghostly blue and the loch blade turned to bright blue dome, it caught the man in cold wet splash.

Bebin, who flowed with the currents of the Loch that swirled around them, traced wide and round with flowing limbs, the path of magick's energies, his body stretched and snapped around the clumsy archer, made all the slower by the kiss of ice cold water that frosted and froze against him now.

Near statue still, the archer was wide eyed, as what warmth was still in his body escaped his breath in wisp of steam. He could not move. Chadwick pulled his sword out of the last man, as the communique rippled in the mind network they'd established. Bebin's mind, the node through which the messages bounced, and rippled out.

Rendezvous at marked location.

Bebin would respond, his eyes wide and open as his kin hurried up the stairs. More guards rallied in the streets. Crossbows trained, but a flick of Syr Sando's wrist and a snap of his fingers saw the wood-bodied weapons catch alight. Precious seconds bought by the flame.

Syr Lefelen grabbed up an iron hook and rope he had kept strapped to his pack, secured the anchor, and let the rope fall on the other side. "Time to go," the moon elf spoke. Chadwick nod, and hurried over the precipice.

Syr Sando next.

Syr Bebin looked out to the open fields before them. Saw a wooded patch where proud old trees gathered upon a hill. He closed his eyes. And to eyes so tuned to the magick, there would appear a feint blue glow amidst those trunks and boughs. Like a wisp, come to guide them.

Bebin let out long breath, and went down the rope.

Lefelen grimaced, waved his wand and with a flick, made slick the stairs with thick ice. Holstered his wand, and went down the rope as the guard's shouts came loud and clear.

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Affirmative, Montank responded and drove himself onwards through the pain which flashed before his eyes at each pulse of the wings. The victory over the rider and beast was hot pursued by the need for another victory...to avoid a similar fate as the mage. A catastrophic crash which would shatter his hollow bones designed to fly not to fall and survive.

Such ignominy cannot pass, Montbank determined and kept up the pace that would cripple him should he misjudge safe passage.

Wild and ill placed snapshots from wildly triggered crossbows pursued his course of action as he weaved through the rush of movement of the streets, his hearing guiding him away primary body summoned by the hue and cry. A gnarled blossoming tree avoided, a tavern sign narrowly dodged, arrowed lodging themselves where he was many seconds before by all too hurried marksmen. Montbank was losing speed and was just above a hand's reach in altitude above the streets, yet through virtue of his daily routine of snaking through the ruins of the monestary made clean his escape of the urban killzone.

The buildings replaced by open field, the freshness of the air and the din of pursuit becoming distant, he extended both feet out and grunted agonising utterances as he slowed and stopped, his wings silent as he threw them out to stop himself. The ground greeted him with a sharp jolt that sent him to his knees, and he rolled awkwardly to avoid injuring himself, his wings doing most of the strained work to slow his advance yet causing much difficulty in the tumble as he struggled to collapse them completely in time. Tumbling forward he barely maintained balance as the firmament's will demanded a far different approach to poise than the evasive manuevers he had so recently performed. The paradigm shift was painful and exhausting, his left leg buckling as Montbank realised that the tendril that had so gripped him had provided deep fiction burn. He skid with jolting pain and jolting panic as control was lost.

Yet, the landing was made, wings kissing the ground, his talons making grip of the grass, his hand upon it also, his blood marking the field in slow blots.

Montbank attempted to stand up tall yet buckled. His body refused such an order. Deep breaths were made, and he made another attempt at dignity, at survival, and found sluggish success. The grounded sky knight balanced his weight on the right leg and tucked his wings in with much effort, making himself as slim a profile as possible to avoid his precious wings from being pierced by a bolt that might arrive.

He saw his comrades approaching, and breathed deep breaths in preparation for the run ahead of them. These precious seconds of recovery could go one of two ways he knew. If he did not keep his spirit up, to endure the run ahead of them, he would fall behind, to be carried by those he was sworn to carry in their emergancy. Such wouldn't do.

He patted his armour to find another potion of any kind to aid him and found his supply wanting, or at least, his ability to find such a thing was strained and flustered from the pain and the recent introduction to the ground. Sleek in the skies his gear could be easily accessed, but with his eyes fixed upon his comrades his talons failed to locate the potion that had been dislodged from it's proper position. It dangled out of reach at his back. Montbank knew he could spend the precious time to look for such a thing, but assumed it lost.

His shoulders shuddered from pain, and felt the creeping sensation of sapped energy from being upon the ground.

I can do this.

I have to.

He sheathed his sword and considered shedding some of the weight, but thought it improper.

If I am to flee the field, I will leave no trace. I won't be the one to let the team down. Come on, reach me, reach me and let's get out of here alive. We're so close!

He turned his body to the side yet kept his owl head fixed upon his fellow knights that made good their escape, his eyes full of pain yet his frame ready to give this next effort everything he had.

 

[Bebin Theros]

White wings flew overhead as the squadron of knights raced across the open field. Still in the killzone of the walls, and they would be for moments yet.

Bebin severed the mind link between them. His magicks strained as they were, his physical being felt the ache and pull of flesh pushed to its limits. Energy spent had to be taken from elsewhere.

His breathing. His mind narrowed about the push and pull of his lungs. The stride of his steps. The sounds of their kits rattling and shaking as they made their withdrawal.

The Baron had cavalry, no doubt. It would only be a matter of moments before the riders came pouring out the gate, and charged across the field.

Chadwick, who had been first to flee, stopped some paces ahead as the archers on the wall called for directions. He knelt down quick, touched his fingers to the earth, and drew in deep breath. A volley of arrows flung out and sailed across the night sky as Sando, Bebin, and Lefelen beat hasty retreat. A ripple of gold, a shield drawn with life's magick, focused through flame's light. It shimmered and flashed as the arrows struck against it, stuck into its veil for all to see.

"At will! Fire at will!" the officer cried out. More arrows sailed out from the wall in erratic volley.

The shield caught more. Flickered, and broke. Chadwick rose and broke into his run once more.

Sando turned, and swept his hand across, with a wide kick of his leg that looked near dancer's pirouette, cape snapped and trailed behind him. Wind surged forth and knocked missiles off course, though some pierced the earth beside them. Sando caught his hat, smooshed it down against his head with a smile and went on running.

Lefelen didn't stop to turn, his limbs still stride as he caught up with Sando, wand clutched tightly in hand. "Double up," he managed through controlled breaths.

Sando raised a straight hand in the affirmative.

Lefelen splayed his off hand out, pointed his willow wood wand into his palm, flicked and swirled and pointed the focus up high. A cloud of cool mist hissed about them, and Sando's whipping gestures spread their veil.

Chadwick grabbed the potion off of Montbank's back, never breaking his stride, and put it in the Owl knight's clutches. A proud crook of his lips as he nod to the owl knight. "Good of you to join us, Syr Montbank," the youngest of their present company said between labored breaths.

The archers could not see past the veil of mist, and the fleeing knights were well out of range of their bows.

Yet the sounds of great metal chains and rising portcullis could be heard through the quiet of the night's air. An officer's trumpet blasted. And the distant thunder of hooves could be heard.

Bebin's mind strained, his limbs felt at the point of rattle. Once more, he called forth the cloak of loch's light. Wove its mantle in his mind. He let it fall. Felt it wrap around them in obscuration. But his own legs failed him at the expenditure of the magicks. One spell too many. Bebin fell hard to the ground.

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

As potion met talons from friendly face, avian ears received the sound of chains become taut as they dredged the portcullis open. Further sound erupted from that open maw. Hooves crashing upon the pavement, the braying of chomped bits, of 'yahs' and driving cries of 'onward' and the like, driving closer, driving onward, driving towards his ears with a speed that was linear and groundbound, the impending fight that Montbank did not cherish the thought of. The potion was cold to touch, and his eyes flashed at it.

He span the bottle in his hand to confirm what it was that had been so misplaced and returned. The colour of the liquid, a two part mixture of viscous moss green and thin shadowy purple with orange flecks, each portion divided by their nature, the green rising to the top and the other sinking to the bottom. Common this was not, yet common the application of the stuff. Wounds to mend, fatigue to restore, and will to bolster, this was something that was weeks in preparation and months since last application. He twisted the top open, a corkscrew of metal that drew up a measure of the two substances and mixed it within the chambered bronze rod that protruded from the flask into his talons. He took the chamber and was about to place it upon his tongue, when the sight of Bebin collapsing entered his impressive peripheral vision.

Not a doubt as to what to do. Montbank strode over, fighting the pain to which he might save himself from should he but apply the medicine to himself. But so esoteric and particular the two liquids that the drawing and synthesis of the dose required some time before another could be drawn, so disinclined to serve utility these two liquids that the unique dropper had to encourage the two to blend over small time once replaced. There was time only for one dose to be drawn.

And the sounds did rise, hoof pounding the dirt and grassland, the trees gave out a howl of wind, the skies seemed so far away above him, and Montbank thought as to how to enter it once again. Time. Time was required before that return.

But not for the drops of muddled liquids to have affect once delivered. It would fortify whatever function the user did wish, to power muscle to drive a fight on, or to press spell into effect, the two liquids combined gave flexibility to the medicine's application decided by the user by their next action. Half a thimble was all that lurked within the cap Montbank held, a kind of dropper, that he crouched over Bebin, opened his mouth, and placed the blended drops upon the tongue and spoke as the rousing affect took hold as sudden as lightning, the decision as to how to apply the energy thunder to the flash.

“Run or cast Bebin, you understand? Run or cast!”

 

[Bebin Theros]

"Run," he said as the potion sizzled electric down his tongue and into his belly. A shock of boltic energy surged out from his core. All up and down his spine, through the nerves that webbed through him like rivers and streams and tributaries. His eyes wide and burning blue as that light that burned about stars through the mist of clouds and aubergine sky.

"While I cast," his voice came in hard hiss as he worked himself back to his feet, knelt upon the earth, and traced a circle about him himself with strong, stiff fingers.

The horses pounded all the nearer. The thunder of their hooves felt through the soil which Bebin scratched rune-marks into with forefinger and middle.

Quick snaps. Short lines.

The distance closed and closed as the Pursuant took in deep breath and shut his eyes. Brought his hands together at his core, two fingers of his right the key to the clutching lock of his left.

He sank his mind into the loch.

The ethereal specter of Bebin hung suspended from the base of the carnal Bebin's form. Crossed and centered upon the runic circle drawn into the earth. A locus of communion scribed to Loch with Pursuant haste.

There in the space of the black mirror, waters most turbulent with the pound of racing heart and the flare of pain. There still, he could see the phantoms of those riders. A squadron of twelve, meant to run them down. Their horses too, for all minds were linked to the Loch. It was only a mater of finding clarity within its turbid obfuscation.

There within that space, of Mind, of Dream, of all one could think, Bebin sat, as something greater stirred beneath him. A serpent of blackberry scales, with wide finnned hood, dotted by thirteen bright stars. Its eyes, the same electric blue light that surged through Bebin's own gaze.

It coiled beneath him. That serpent of midnight sky. Rose through him, its head poised to strike. The phantasmal serpent, the great Basilisk of Seretjab, bared its fangs with wicked hiss, and struck forward, toward the lines of horses. A wave of black waters surged behind it in terrible swell.

In the waking, the horses blared in horror. Reared up as all discipline crumbled.

Bebin let out long breath, pushed himself off the ground, and continued his retreat. Slower than before, but with time he had paid well for.

Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The psychological shattering of resolve born from Pursuant determination was a welcome horror to Montbank's eyes and ears, who received the sound of whinnying horses and screams of alarm and distress with grim relief.

Better fear than death for them, Montbank thought, thinking only of mercy towards the animals. The riders were pinpricks upon the ground in the high vantage point in his mind's eye.

The animals, however, were full featured and large within his imagination, with eyes that could see and spirits that could be betrayed. Spirits that were panicked yet not blinded by death by the Pursuant's course of action. Their winnies born from equine throats, the stamping and halting of hoofs as they turned and fled the scene were a salve upon his mind, the rushing water crashing upon the soil, soaking in, permeating the fear deep to all it soaked.

The dismay of the riders were all noise, not to be regarded, for they would cut them down with all volition. The horses harboured no ill will towards them, they wished only to get away from the threat of being overwhelmed by whatever their brains processed was before them.

Such a fearful display of crashing water and eminent power cut the pursuit short and Montbank felt the aches within him become less pressing for the precious moments he stood beside Bebin in his casting. The aerial knight so grounded thought upon those horses more as he arranged his wings. They were not like the griffon that they had felled in unison attack, full of fury and predatory eyes and swooping claw and beak and want to eviscerate. They could be redeemed by other riders one day, he thought as Bebin finished his work.

Montbank wondered if there might have been a more merciful end for the griffon, for even it was of the Wyld. Disciplined to be ridden into combat by that mage who disregarded it's life so. Montbank scowled at the thought as if it were unwelcome and untimely imposter. There would be time for all that thought later, when the celebrations were high, and duty found the chill of violence's absence. When humanoid hands clasped his shoulders and reminded him he wasn't as his comrades.

But such thoughts were fleeting, he knew, and were imposters to be rejected as firmly as that griffon's life had been. Yet rejected they had to be, for they came all the same for Montbank. The skies were unforgiving, and one had to be as the griffon in ferocity to those chagrin moments of remorse. Else the skies doom you should you return to their currents of battle and strife.

He looked at his comrade who had rendered this deed so and gave a single approving nod. There would be time for more vocal congratulations later. More dignified, with the proper audience.

For now the trees looked on now, with branch did they gesture escape, did they beckon safety.

Montbank hauled through the forest, as did his comrades, snaking through the undergrowth and long grasses and upjutting root. For the knights were used to running through such terrain, such was the virtue of their home terf. The soil welcomed them as friends, the trees growing more close knit as they ventured deeper into the safety of obfuscation. The winged one took out a thin cloak designed to break the pure white of his white wings, a firm shadow grey now replacing the shock of white that might be spotted through treelines labyrinthine pattern.

Animals remained still as they passed, squirrel eyes and nesting bird allowing them passage without alarm. Montbank saw them all as he moved, his talons pressing upon the ground. All seemed well for long minutes of passage.

The gloom of safety however, soon became disturbed by a wild streak of pale red that lanced the sky above them. At first Montbank peered up and saw it without realising it's nature. He thought it perhaps another mage who bore themselves in flight by virtue of that crimson magic he had seen the cowled one display. But what was happening was far more fearful, for this was not something to run full force from.

This was something to hide from, for fear of being marked.

Montbank relayed a message as he hoped his comrades would find what cover they could the flare that bloomed high. Soon the dot of pale red would explode into motes of shimmering red dust, and if one was touched by that pollen, they would be marked, luminescent in the dark, as the gloom would be denied it's sanctuary.

Find cover from the pollen that'll fall down around us. Don't let it touch you! They mean to track us for days upon end if it does.

A pause as training manuals on what to do flipped open in Montbank's mind.

Might we burrow?

The thought of burrowing beneath a tree was a horrible one to the sky warrior. To be imprisoned in a foxhole of magically parted earth. But, it was the most sensible recourse, and the one that he had read was appropriate in the training manuals for when he had used such magic himself to mark wild beasts for culling.

He looked to Bebin for direction. They could cower behind trees and halt themselves, and hope that the wide spreading pollen did not touch them. Or they could enter the ground by virtue of Wyld magic.

“It's your call, Pursuant,” Montbank said calmly, not allowing his fear of being so imprisoned in such a tight space dominate his candour. He wouldn't live with himself if he marked his words with the streak of shame.

Nor would the group render themselves safe if they were marked by small fraction the pollen that was about to descend through canopy, heavy, wind born, and full of promise of further future danger.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

The red spore flare shimmered through the canopy cover. Fell like like horrid rain from the heavens in a curtain of rouge that sparked and traced with light.

"Burrowing will take us too long," he ordered, "Too much energy" the other knights, Lefelen, Sando, Chadwyck, nod in agreement, making ready their kits after passing around water skins and tack.

Quick drinks. Quick bites. They made to move under the cover of canopy. "Cloakes over head," Bebin alerted.

Sando removed his proud feathered cap. "No way I'm losin this to a marking spore," he grinned, and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head as he tucked his cap under its cover.

They moved with quick caution as the orange-red spore cloud fell upon them. Coated their cloaks, as they went to ground and cover, sure to hide what skin they could from the illuminating dust.

Coated in the orange-crimson dust. "We will have to lead our pursuers into ambush," Bebin communicated to the others, as they crawled and ran deeper into the woods.

"We can lead them further east, lose them in the spine?" Syr Lefelen suggested.

Syr sando plopped on his hat, clicked his teeth. "Can set a few traps for them, maybe create a few false trails?"


Syr Chadwyck, the youngest of the squadron, stood quiet and listened.

"We stay together, we are marked, and already worn thin from the escape effort," Bebin directed. "We make for the eastern path, toward the Jaws of the Mistfang,"

Lefelen nod. "Friendly Ur-Wolf pack hunts along that range, could be, they lend us some fangs,"

Sando nod. "I'll lay some surprises behind us, just the same,"

"Chadwyck," Bebin snapped, his eyes hard on the young sworn. "See if you can't dress Syr Montbank's wounds, we move shortly,"

Theolonious Montbank Frazil Valrulf

 

[Frazil Valrulf]

Neither the fleeing Knights of Anathaeum nor their pursuers could know what awaited them on the rugged and mountainous path to the Jaws of the Mistfang, though the drifting white clouds that swirled around the jagged peaks of the Spine grew heavy as the hunted knights began their ascent. They followed a narrow trail marked with strange wooden carvings. Set up to mark the path, perhaps. Or as a warning.

The storm that bore down upon them howled like an angry banshee, spitting snow and carrying a frigid gale from the mountain tops. It seemed that fate itself had conspired to slow their progress, and despite the clever tricks and ploys the knights had left in their wake, they had a sense that their pursuers were gaining - drawn to the mark left by the lingering pollen. Wounded and weary from days of travel with hardly a rest, how much longer could they continue the chase in these conditions?

The group of soldiers and trackers who were on the knights' trail cursed their own luck as the stormfront hit them. They were almost upon the fleeing thieves now, but the snow was obscuring their view of the marked targets.

"Double-time!" the captain ordered against the haunting refrain of the blasting cold wind. A middle-aged man who'd served the victimized noble for many years, he was determined to regain his honor after being humiliated by the keep's infiltration. For him, this chase was becoming more of a personal vendetta for every mile travelled. For every distant glimmer of the marked thieves. So intent was he on this trail that he didn't see the frosty eyes staring at them from a high ledge, nor the wiry figure perched nearby.

They pushed against the relentless wind. Above that wail that bit at ears and noses and exposed skin like frozen fangs, only one of them paused to consider the faint but growing rumble. He barely had enough time to stammer in confusion before a section of fresh snow broke free from the cliff above them and crashed into the path, splitting their party.

The captain turned, aghast, and clawed futilely at the hard-packed mound of snow. He and his group all cowered as a second rumble came from above and a second small avalanche blocked the path ahead. A pale, limber figure slid down the fresh wall to stand atop the snow and glower down at them.

"Such a nice day to go for ride, and what I find?" the strange woman, who would have been small compared to the humans had she been at their level, spoke in a halting version of their language. "Trespassers... and those of our good friends from green valley. Come to give more of things? Queen will be pleased to hear." She cast them a feral grin that only barely hid the immense disgust she had for this warm-skinned princeling and his hirelings.

The captain spat a line of curses in her direction. "You nasty little goblin spawn! We've not come to give you greedy little brigands anything! Get out of our way or face our steel and fire!" He motioned one of his underlings forward, who began casting a spell. A few moments later, a gout of flame exploded from the mage's hand, hissing as it started to melt the snowbank.

"You plan to melt whole mountain down? You are dumber than look," she rumbled a laugh and jumped back from the slowly-collapsing snowbank. Though she put on a confident front to make these fools aware - again - that they were not welcome in this territory, the lone ísflögur knew she couldn't take down a group this size without a raiding party backing her.

It made her wonder... why were they so intent on chasing the small group who were struggling up the trail ahead? Only one way to find out.

It would take the princeling's pawns some time to melt a path through the avalanche; enough time for Frazil to catch up to the fleeing party up the mountain.

She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled sharply. Even in the wind, the sound was enough to perk the ears of the winter wolf who was lounging on a rocky outcropping staring down the humans below with a hungry lick of her lips. With canine power and grace, the great white wolf came to her side with a few bounds, slowing just long enough for the ísflögur to leap up on lean legs into the leather-and-hide saddle across the canine's torso.

"Let us see what these fire-lovers chase into Queen's Land," she said, patting the wolf's giant head with one bare hand. Taking up one of the spears held in a long quiver on her back, Frazil held on tightly as her mount took off with a series of bounds across the stone and snow.

Not far up the mountain, the knights heard the rumble from behind.

Bebin Theros Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Montbank looked up at the sky with longing gaze. Seeing the thinness of the clouds, feeling the rush of frigid air against his feathers, hearing the howl of those gales, it provided him all sensory knowledge of those distant, oh so distant, currents that might give him lift and passage. Denied. Injury sustained, he dared not launch himself into such turbulence and unforgiving whims of frozen air. Flight might be possible in short bursts, he reasoned, but dared not attempt it without desperate need. He had no want to jeopardise the others should he overextend himself and become a liability. Perish that thought. Comfortable in the skies, useful in the airspace, Montbank found himself begrudging the inclines that bound him so to that of a ground trooper.

His heart grew all the more burdened by the ground with each step into the snow. The skies called to him, reach out, touch us, be free. Each step felt like a betrayal of his true home. He saw his animal resemblance arc across the skies and offer cold perfect vision to his plight. Montbank imagined it saying something derisive to his grounded state. Pretender of the skies, it said with outstretched wing.

He pressed on, his thoughts wearisome to his condition, yet no complaint issued aloud to his comrades. He bore his maladies without griping about it. Such wouldn't do. He turned his vision from the sky to the snow touched ground they traversed. It was endless and wreathed in obscuring frost that raced about in heavy pulses, as if born from a sleeping titan that lay across the peak of the mountain, extruding chilling air in slumber, in dream, in nightmare.

The thought of being buried by an avalanche weighted upon his mind. He could avoid such a fate. The others? Perhaps not. He tread carefully, silently, his gear flush to his person yet awkward for virtue of not being horizontal in flight. The pain throbbed in his shoulders, the talon piercing his back denying him powerful and certain propulsion of wings.

There was nothing else for it except to accept and move onward. Trudging on, he moved without complaint, yet disappointment in himself growing with each gnawing moment he could not provide intel to his comrades. Such assurances were beyond him now, as distant as the beckoning skies that were withheld to him.

Both the snow owl that pitched and banked above them and the knight Montbank below it heard that whistle that beckoned a beast. It was carried as a rush that pierced, and then faded away. A most unwelcome sound that made Montbank turn his head and raise his body as to triangulate the exact location. He bobbed his head and peered out into the unknowable distance. And then came the rumbling.

“Prepare,” Montbank uttered to his comrades and talons inched towards the steel that nestled within the scabbard. “Something mounted bounds. Something that bounds in spite of all this terrain. Dash it all, we cannot outrun it as we are...” he said matter of factly, such utterances triggering the twinge of failing hope troubling his fighting spirit. He knew how to fight in the snow, to move gracefully across the snow without trace, but knew that he had grown reliant on his wings in fighting attitude. Many techniques would be denied or hampered. Home in the skies, stranger to the ground without swift exit, he felt uncertainty mold the matter of his mind.

If we get home, I will do more drills in the yard instead of flying everywhere.

A moment to recognize the doubt that marred him.

Montbank ripped the sword from his scabbard in frustration for allowing such darkness to mark him before a fight. As talons seized the weapon and felt the reassuring weight and heft of the blade, refuting the pessimism with certain, angry internal command.

When we get home! When!

Bebin Theros Frazil Valrulf

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin drew close his spore stained cloak. To better keep the cold from his form. His breath, wisps of hot steam that dissipated through the air, when mountain rumbled and snow roared. Their march ceased, their eyes turned back to see the white curtain that fell between them and their pursuers.

"Twas no natural avalanche, Syr Bebin," Lefelen let out.

Sando pulled the brim of his hat down. "Nope,"

"Frost wolf?" Chadwyck asked.

Bebin grumbled. "We must press on,"

He turned his back to the avalanche, and trudged through the snow.

The others followed. Knowing something had given them small favor. Whether they would remain in its good graces or not, only time would tell.

Through the whipping winds and the frosted waves of stirring snow, the knights did march.

Prepare... Something mounted bounds.

"Steady yourself, Syr Montbank!" Bebin called out, hearing the nerves rising in the Sworn's voice. "Sheath your weapon," he said with hoarse breath. "No lord's man would meet us here, not with such speed," Bebin let his eyes shut. A pulse rippled out from his epicenter.

Ice. Snow. They too were but facets of the Loch. Cold and frozen as they were. Two breaths for every one. His vision in the black mirror of the waking world, the realm of thought and dream, halved.

Still. Through the swirl and the ice. He had seen them. Felt their wyld spirits. An ísflögur and her wolf.

Bebin's eyes came open, with the bright burn of blue. "Hail and well met, rider of the proud mountains," he called out.

The other knights tightened their ranks, eyes hard. Hands ready round their sheathes.

"At ease," Bebin hissed. "Do not disrespect a guardian of this range,"

We would already be dead if they so wanted.

Frazil Valrulf Theolonious Montbank

 

[Frazil Valrulf]

Frazil was caught quite off-guard when one of the group ahead called out to her before she could even make them out clearly through the sheets of tiny, wind-driven snowflakes. Not that they could have hoped to hide from anyone, glimmering as though they were cloaked in stars. It was what had first drawn her attention on what had otherwise been an uneventful scouting mission. Now that she had seen whose forces were behind, she was curious about this strange group that seemed to be trying to create distance between them.

She instinctively tensed with the wolf as Sastriga crouched in preparation for a leap. They sprung upwards together, in perfect conjunction, to rest on a rock outcropping that overlooked the trail about forty yards from the group.

"Wait," she said to her companion in her native tongue, though it was hardly necessary, for Sastriga understood that they would not attack - not yet. The great wolf rested on the rock, ears laid back and azure eyes resting squarely on the burning blue eyes that stared back.

Frazil pushed her heels down into the wide stirrups and stood tall in her saddle. "Your friends down mountain, having trouble with storm," she called to them in their language, gauging their reactions to the implication. She doubted that they were the princeling's allies, but few were the neighbors her people called friends. At least, friends enough that trade was preferred over the more direct method of importing goods.

"They not last long in Queen's land. Fire-lovers never do." Despite the threatening undertone to her words, she was amused by the greeting she received, and the burning-eyed one's plea to calm his comrades. She was far more used to being welcomed with a volley of arrows. And if they were truly enemies of that irritating warm-skinned creature that had betrayed the Queen... well, perhaps they were worth the trouble of saving.

Sastriga uttered a single loud bark and then rumbled a low growl.

"You smell of blood," Frazil explained. "Wounds from battle, yes?

"You not last long out in open. Maybe I help now, you help later. Scratch backs, yes?"

Bebin Theros Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Montbank steadied himself by virtue of the Pursuant's council. One virtue of being on the ground was close proximity to his comrades's better cheer.

He sheathed his weapon immediately upon command, for it was not his habit to disobey a direct order. Besides, it was easy enough to tear it out of the scabbard once again he thought, although looking at the beast and rider they looked like they might bound in a single moment upon any one of their throats. Or so it appeared to Montbank, who found the lack of assured elevation to make those teeth and beastly bulk seem all the more looming on the horizon as it broke through the howling winds.

Montbank listened to the sliding snows, how they shifted and threatened to sweep them up in an avalanche that had belayed those that would engage them in vicious combat. Montbank kept as dignified as possible, but found himself giving a low hoot of nerves. He ruffled his feathers at his own unwitting sound, frustrated at his own slip. The curse made him more inclined to his animalistic side when perturbed, and was so at the mention of scratching backs. His eyes looked to the beast, who he very much thought would find his weakened back to be delicious indeed. His eyes remained on the wolf.

“Pursuant Bebin...it pains me to say, but I don't think we have much choice here. And to tarry in negotiations might doom us,” Montbank admitted a little too pessimistically as he felt the twinge of pain in his back influence his tone. He rolled his shoulders, and felt his right wing touch the ground inelegantly as he did so, a passage of dried blood matted against the wing. He tucked it up as quickly as he could, but the admission had been there. He was wounded. He could think of nothing else but that beast this one rode, would be the first to be pounced upon, for the smell of blood, for the sight of weakness.

Bebin Theros Frazil Valrulf

 

[Bebin Theros]

"No friends of ours," Sando answered.

Lefelen nod his agreement.

Chadwyck just sort of watched, Kept close to his sworn kin.

Syr Bebin could not recall the last the order had made contact with the Frostkith. Could have been decades past, if not centuries. Still, he listened intently, impassive behind the veil Loch's light that traced his gaze.

She went on to speak of Queen's land, and Fire-lovers.

The beast gave warning. Prompted Sando and Chadwick to pull steel.

"Keep them sheathed." Bebin said cold and firm in the howl of the winds. His mind pulsed a feeling of peace. Their minds might have felt it. But it was hard to tell, given all that went on around them.

Smell of blood... wounds...

Bebin nod. "It is as you say,"

...I hep now, you help later...

Syr Montbank bade he accept the offer. Wise council.

"Agreed, Bebin," Lefelen said coolly.

Sando nod, as the feather in his cap thrashed about in the wind.

"At your command, Syr," Chadwyck added.

"We accept the offer, wolf rider," he bowed his head to the rider and her wolf. Showed his neck to them. Trust given in long and frigid pause.

He pushed out deep breath, drew in the cold frigid air as he swelled back up to rise, straight back despite the exhaustion that racked him.

"Guide us then, Proud Rider, and know the Knights of Anathaeum will repay this kindness," he smirked. "Scratch your back, same as you scratch ours," a moment to let the agreement breath. Sink in. "Will you guide us through, Queen's land?"

Frazil Valrulf Theolonious Montbank

 

[Frazil Valrulf]

"Wise choice." She sat back in her saddle and made a nod up the mountain. "Old burrow of smelling stone men not far. Empty. Shelter you from storm. We lead you there."

Rather than going through the group on the narrow trail, she clicked her tongue and Sastriga made a series of jumps across the ledges and rocks upslope - a path the she-wolf knew very well. They came down on the snowy trail just ahead of the knights. Frazil dismounted and took an axe from its sheath on her saddle.

Fortunately for them, Frazil had been among those few hermaður who had learned something of the art of trade - enough to understand that traders were always rather uncomfortable with a winter wolf staring them down.

"You remember smelling stone men cave? Find for us," she said to the wolf in the warm-skins' language so they could understand she wasn't plotting against them. Sastriga reached over one shoulder with her large head and snapped at a saddle bag on her side.

"I know hungry. Eat much later, promise. Go now!"

Her command was met with a soft growl, but the wolf set off across the snow, nose alternating between the air and the rocks as she traced the scent of the place her rider sought.

Frazil swung the axe out in front of her as if chopping at a tree, sending sprays of snow out to one side. Then the other. It was strange, seeing a slicing weapon parting the drifts better than any shovel. Yet she formed a path down and through the growing snowbanks, enough that those behind her could walk without sinking knee-deep into the trail.

Up and across the rocky slope they went as the wind tried to suck the last of their inner warmth away. As the snow continued to sail by them. Trusting in the strength of their allies as their strange guide led them on with the great wolf always just ahead.

"Not far! Just up hill!" she'd call back to any who seemed to be struggling.

At some point in what must have seemed to some of them like an endless trudge through growing darkness, there was a resounding thump as the ísflögur's weapon struck something hard.

"We here."

Before them stood a low and wide set of stone doors covered in dwarvish carvings.

Theolonious Montbank Bebin Theros

​

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The axe was a marvel to behold, and the distance between Montbank and the beast was greatly appreciated. Montbank remained silent as he followed the rest of the knights. He debated using of his water canteen to wash away some of the blood from his wing, but thought it an indulgence.

Let me be marked by my troubles, instead of causing more by lacking.

The path cut was true and sure, and Montbank felt relief assure his spirit as they made safe passage. Still, what was it that this one asked of them? The darkness approached, as did Montbank's wonderings. To trust the beasts with guiding them, did such animals truly know the way? Or was this some elaborate trap?

As the door was revealed by cleaving of snow, Montbank ruffled his feathers and kept his hooting in check. His feet ached from doing so much walking, and he felt the sensation of dread fetter him as what was to be an indoor environment presented it's challenge to him. He wondered what Bebin might say to assure him.

He postulated the following advice based off his troubled condition.

You're stuck on the ground anyway.

He rubbed his face with a talon and knew that things were getting to him if he imagined the Pursuant to dole out such terrible consolation in his mind.

“I'll do my best in such a place, I'll just imagine it has some vast window to fly from, yes, that'll do,” Montbank said to the others as he drew himself up proud and tall, knowing that posture beget attitude. It simply wouldn't do to be miserable, not when any manner of violence was avoided by taking shelter here. Montbank knew in his light bones that rest was needed, healing required if he was to at full capacity, and looked to his comrades. He was putting on a brave face in spite of his condition, but not so bold as to try and open the doors himself. They were most likely frost bound tight, and required some heat or great strength to open.

"Might require a more able and stronger hand than I to pry it open I'm afraid," Montbank admitted and looked away in some measure of humilitation at the admission. In human form he had been strong enough to heft longbow for hours. In this form, he was built to fly. Not to heave open doors or perform great feats of strength, but to endure great measures of fatigue from flying.

And endure he did now the pains of his efforts before, his wounded pride gnawing at him, and the thought of taking refuge underground.

Bebin Theros Frazil Valrulf

 

[Bebin Theros]

"Sando, Lefelen, Chadwyck," Bebin called as they marched. "We will rotate aiding Syr Montbank by provide a shoulder to lean on his wounded side," the pursuant instructed.

The Owl knight had fought valiantly, in a way that only he could. Cutting through the air to duel against a gryphon and his mage rider. They all knew how much they owed him. And Chadwyck would be the first to help shoulder the winged knight's weight.

If only because the others had magick more apt to aid them in this moment.

Still, as they marched through the snow, they would shift. One by one, each there to aid their sworn brother.

"Dusk, and Dawn, Syr Montbank," the Pursuant would say to him whence it was his turn. Noticing the dour look about the flyer's eye. The longing for something beyond the frozen earth beneath his talons. Just as oft as Bebin's mind ached to dive back into the cool depths of the Loch. "You were our knife in the dark, now we must all be the open palm of day, so that we may stay the darkness that surrounds us,"

The rest of the march would proceed in silence, save the warnings and assurances of their guide. All the while, Syr Bebin kept his eye of Loch clear and open. It allowed him to see through the veil of ice and wind. Allowed him to feel the minds of others, for some distance from he, the moving epicenter of the magick's pulse. Beat by beat with his heart.

It taxed him. But the ice, the snow. The natural presence of water, frozen as it was, alleviated some of the load upon his own being's magick's.

Clank.

We here. Came the voice of their guide.

Sando smiled. "Worry not, dear Montbank," he said in his easy drawl. "For Syr Sando, and Lefelen, are here to clear the way," he tipped the wide brim of his hat toward the winged knight, and again to the little lady, to whom he also gave a wink. "Pardon me, miss," he said as he pulled his dagger from its sheath.

Its fine blade was etched wit delicate rune work. Its handle, cored with a cypress wood wand. His gloved hand adjusted its grip, and flicked the dagger point to the door. a few easy flicks of the wrist and the script about the door glowed soft gold in the harsh dark of the winter bluster. His eyes scanned the dwarven texts, scrawled about.

"To ye who would come to Burhtangrath, speak the word, and pass," the human knight read. "Huh,"

Lefelen muttered. "The word,"

Bebin huffed a long breath, and let his mind rest, come the last pulse of his Loch's eye. "Chadwyck, attend to Syr Montbank's wounds. Magick only, we don't want any more heat loss from washing with water,"

Chadwyck nod, and moved to aid Montbank.

Syr Sando turned and smiled to the white haired scout. "Well, Miss, you know the word, I take it?" he eyed her wolf, gave it a nervous smile.

Frazil Valrulf Theolonious Montbank

 

[Frazil Valrulf]

Frazil watched them examine the door with an odd sort of curiosity. She hadn't seen anything particularly interesting about the barrier - there were no gemstones nor precious metals embedded in its surface - but she stepped aside and let them continue their investigation. Sastriga, too, stood atop the piled snow with her head cocked to the side in apparent interest in the goings-on below.

Thinking they were assigning her the name "Miss", she corrected them by pointing to herself and declaring,

"Name Frazil. Of Valrulf Clan."

Syr Sando turned and smiled to the white haired scout. Well, Miss, you know the word, I take it?

She shrugged in genuine confusion at him just before clambering over a stray snowdrift that had piled against one side of the old doors.

"I not know many words you speak. What word you want?" she asked as Sastriga, standing behind her, seemed to walk to the right and disappear into the wall. Frazil pointed to the gap in the wall that led into the ruins.

Bebin Theros Theolonious Montbank