Knights of Anathaeum War? No! A Skirmish!

[Byanka Valkas]

Byanka kept one hand in the she-bear's fur and the other wrapped in her horse's reigns as they walked back up the hill, away from the fighting that was dwindling. She knew it was not over. Familiar and unfamiliar shadows danced in the sky as the knights retreated to reassemble and assess the damage and their unforeseen enemies. It had only been the first round.

When they reached the medical tent, Arbok collapsed to the ground with a huff and turned sorrowful brown eyes on Byanka. Byanka let go of her horse's reigns. Now that the fighting was behind them, he was calmer, and she trusted him not to gallop off. Medics rushed over and did what they could for the bear, but eventually they slowed, looking up at Byanka. "Unless she's in human form, we can't do much else for her," one of the medics said, a woman with hair the color of straw and freckles on her nose.

Byanka nodded and knelt to the ground. She gently removed Arbok's paw from her face so that she could keep eye contact with the bear as she gave her fellow knight more of her life force, so that she would have enough strength to change back into her human form.

 

[Hector]

While many of the room hushed at the lady knight's grizzly appearance, Ser Rount but smiled. Turned to his fellows about him with hearty shove. "So, we are to believe the word of a wolf witch babbling on about cultists now?" He laughed, turned his eyes on the woman, none in the room had seen as a human on this day. "Please, your Lordship," a correction to the knights familiarity, and a mockery of the one who wore the title all at once. Too green. Untested. "Your father trusted reason, iron and steel, not these fairytales from the darkwoods,"

The rabble grew hot once more. Here heres, and mutterings of how lunacy hid within the wild lands, and was passed around like sweet drink by those who dwelled in it.

Hezzard clicked his tongue. "Speak more on this, delivry, and you'll lose them all together, your Lordship," he advised his charge amidst the din.

Ser Rount was not done. His voice came loud and sure as he felt the crowd swelling. "But on one thing it would seem we agree, Syr," he turned his gaze back to the Lord Dunstable. "Let us do what we do best, let us stand and win this day!"

A part of the crowd, still unbloodied, gave hot shout. While others looked grim eyed. Victory or defeat, the could give too shits passed living to see tomorrow.

---

Farren Lóthlindor kristofer Karken

---

As spears went up the line, and the line of foot fell back, Hector saw visors slap up, as tired figures hurried back. He saw Syr Aarno stride across the churned snow. Saw one man fall. Helped up by another. He felt his horse shift beneath him all the more.

I am tired damn it. It said, soundless as it turned its head about, a click of teeth its rider's warning. Hector frowned, nod, and slipped off his saddle. Landed with a thump, as armor jostled and shook. Led his horse back to camp.

Short horn blasts communicated the withdrawal. While another shallow call droned.

Calls for the cavalry. Calls to rest, fast, and ready to ride again, as Eironmar cursed, as he had recieved news from a courier. Gave command to his second, and rode off to the rear of the camp.

 

[kristofer]

The air crackled with division. The new Lord Dunstable held still, face blank as her stare drifted betwixt the so-called witch and Ser Rount, taking in the strangest agreement. A nod was given, expressionless.

“ Thank you both, for your— respective opinions. “ As that is, what they appear to largely be.

“ I do not know you, Syr Knight of Anathaeum, nor am I intimately aware as to what it is exactly you do so well, when naught but calls to retreat have reached me. From your very kin. “ An error, then? Misinformed, or perhaps— Her look shifted, taking on Ser Eagan Rount in turn.

“ You speak of my father, Ser Rount. Never tire reminding me of him and his deeds, in fact. “ It was with no feeling, just a cold stare. And he isn’t even two months dead.

“ A man of principle — what he did last was escalate his hostility towards Lord Järnberg, needlessly engaging us all in this full on conflict. I plan to end it. “

Though none asked, she could feel the question in the air, one for a later time. At her shoulder, the guard stood silent, bless him.

“ We retreat, entirely, quick and orderly as you can. Save whomever we’ve left to fight another day, if need be. And Hezzard — “ She turned to him. “ Have someone deliver summons to Lord Järnberg, to talk. That is, if he has sense enough to not give us chase. “

Some discord was muttered, but she gave it no mind, tapping the table twice to mark the council concluded. The tent canvas flapped, with wind and the hastened movement of those most agreeable. She made to leave, rounding the table and speaking on her way to whomever lingered, faces sour.

“ Naturally, whomever amongst you considers themself not so— “ A wave of the hand, rotation by the wrist. “ Prone to fear like all those silly woodland knights and our own officers afield, is free to stay and fight what apparently doesn’t exist. An easy victory, am sure. “

With that she exited to the snow, cloak alive in her wake.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Dismissed.

Farren felt a revolt on her tongue but held it. These were not her men. And forcing herself on them in face of their ignorance would win her a few enemies and fewer friends.

She nodded solemnly to Dunstable's declaration. Determined to at least speak to her fellow Knights and discuss their next plan of action, if there even was one besides packing up and turning home.

Bodies shifted amongst the soft incessant murmurs, men staying and leaving. But Farren stopped abruptly, shoulder to shoulder next to Ser Rount, her body turned from him and to the entrance of the tent pavilion.

Refusing to look at him, she addressed him in a quietly dark tone, "Perhaps the dear Ser needs be reminded of the wolf that saved his fat neck from a swinging halberd?" Pale eyes finally slid to pierce him, a sharp lupine smile contorting her mouth. "Or maybe next time,' she growled, "We let fate decide where your head shall roll."

Without hearing his reply, she left the tent. The icy breeze cutting at her with a vengeance for the brief reprieve she had enjoyed, immediately missing the advantages of a dense fur coat. Huffing briefly into her pink hands, Farren scanned the camp until her eyes caught on Syr Faramund, Syr Gruki at his side.

Sigh. Might as well rip the bandage off now. She thought reluctantly. Her tired feet dragging only slightly until she reached the Dawnling and broke the news.

Hector kristofer Karken

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

The world spun before her eyes again, and she felt herself sway atop her horse.

No. Someone had pulled her down from her horse, perhaps even caught her. Saskia could not make sense of much at that moment, except the darkening edges at her eyesight.

"Medic!" That someone called out as they pulled her helm from her head and the world brightened, but did not do much in keeping the shadows clinging to her vision at bay. "That is a nasty gash!"

She was warm and cold all the same, but Saskia managed a grin. "I am fine." Her hand went to lift her sword, but it felt weightless enough for her to see it was no longer in his grasp, now resting in the snow beside her horse.

Not until she saw the white cloth that was dabbed gently above her brow did she see the blood. And the world began to stifle her, hurting her enough to make her aware that the skin split from brow to hairline. Saskia screeched out in pain, as if not feeling it for this time had caused a major feeling to make up the lack of acknowledgement. Without the helm in place, the cold element burned at the wound.

Her vision blurred again, the shadows creeping more and more before it ate up the falling snow she looked up to. No, not my shadows... my darkness...

"Oh. Is that her skull? That's bone!" She heard someone trying not to be sickened at the sight of her unstitched wound.

 

[Arbok]

It hurt.
It hurt more than anything she ever thought could hurt.
She wasn't supposed to force the change. It was dangerous but she couldn't help it.
Byanka's hands were warm and she didn't want to waste what was given. So she changed, slowly, painfully. Her bones too small for her shrinking muscles and her organs too big for her body.
Blood pooled out her eyes and nose. Her teeth, shattered as the uneven change forced things out of their place. The difficulty of it showed in her warped flesh as it ruptured in places underneath her armour.
"AAAAAUGGHH!"
Arbok's cry turned into gentle sobs as she finally returned to her human form, weakened, wounded and now in armour much too big for her to fit in. She lay on her side, eyes open and too pained to move.
Grateful though, she would have to thank Byanka once she was better.
The smoking wounds still threatened her so the medics got to their work.
If she had anything left in her, she would have called out but as she was, she could only weakly grope at Byanka's hand for support and acknowledgement of her help getting her there and changing.

Byanka Valkas

 

[Faramund]

The movers and shakers were done biting each other's heads off by the time Faramund joined his brethren. Before he could make his presence known, however, Farren had caught up with him. The news she brought with her was no real news at all, but he was glad to hear it all the same.

'About damn time!' He growled, leaning from the saddle to clasp arms with the dusker. 'Any longer and we'd be worm food.'

Smiling, he relayed word to the others. Those still capable of sitting a horse, at least. Saskia, Arbok, Basco. The wounded and dead were piling up fast, it seemed. No wonder Lord Dunstable had decided to do the smart thing and sound the withdrawal.

'Give us a hand here!' A man shouted, snapping Faramund from his thoughts.

Vaulting from his horse, the dawnling rushed over. 'What's the mat-' His voice trailed away as he noticed the bloody gash on Saskia's head. 'Sweet, unholy- Syr Hector! You are needed!' Moving to Syr Kerraelas's side, Faramund helped ease her into a sitting position. 'There we go,' he said gently, grimacing at the blood running down her face. 'Gonna have one hell of a scar after this, make all the boys weep with envy...'

Farren Lóthlindor Saskia Kerraelas Hector

 

[Hector]

Another rider came by. Horse set to tired walk. Hector paid it little mind. Just another soul, off the field. Armored, and seated.

He went on, guiding his horse.

Medic! A half check, eyes wide. Syr Hector!

Fuck. Hector found the voice, half as fast as he should. He looked to his horse, looked back to the scene of hazard, and let the reigns go, hurrying double quick.

"Syr!" he reported. More squire than knight in the call. His eyes though, they made quick study. Saw the dark red, the jagged wound, his heart beat twice times fast, and he pulled from his well of spirit the magicks to wield and command, as gauntleted hands cut signs and seals of a language long dead amongst most tongues.

Life's energies burned forth. Up from the cold frozen earth. He felt that heat, of the dormant land in his gut, run up his spine, the steadiness of soil compacted neath the weight of the waking world lent to him the friction, the movement, the energy to give to Saskia.

Life would spread through her flesh. Life would spur on the healing of her wound. The fibers of life would knit together, as if by hastened hand. Discomfort might be felt, itch and irritation there where the wound rent mortal fabric, yet, she would heal. Faster than naturally possible. The flesh would come together again. Though silvered scar would yet remain.

Hector eased out heavy breath. Felt his own limbs grow heavy. "She should be safe to move," he said, and nod to Syr Faramund, who he was sure had more to do. "I can, I can take her to the medic' tent, to make sure she rests while we withdraw," he offered.

---

At the Medics Tent, healers, magical and mundane gathered about those troops that needed most attention.

Given the magical nature of Arbok's wounds, one of the Anatheaum's ranks offered what healing she could. A freshly sworn knight, but her skill with Life's magick was well known.

She booned Syr Valka's own flow of magicks, and accelerated the weaving of Arbok's own fibers of flesh. The Shadow wounds gave more than a little trouble, but the purge of dark magicks was something she was well versed with. Curse breaking, nullifcations. Life, Death, and Loch, the three pursuits she studied most gave her pathways of understanding that helped her administer aid.

But her own energies. Her reserves, drained fast. Required time. She comforted Arbok and Valkas best she could. But her coil demanded time. So she would abide by such restraints.

Arbok Saskia Kerraelas Faramund @Byanka Valkas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

With so many coming to her aide, all Saskia could hope to do is not empty her stomach with everyone watching her. With her vision going, and her willpower to hold to the present waning, she was convinced she was about to make even more of a mess of herself.

Until someone said something to make her recoil in mild disgust, then causing her to wince and groan as the skin above her brow seared with pain from the expression.

'Gonna have one hell of a scar after this, make all the boys weep with envy...'

"Not if I give them someone else to cry over." She grumbled through gritted teeth.

But the pain and nausea, the unsettling feeling in her gut, and most importantly, the light slowly began to recede. From where she sat, being held upright by a couple of people she was glad not to empty the contents of her stomach upon, she could see Syr Hector, or at least at first the blurry image she believed to be was him. He worked fast, and once she saw the relaxing of his muscles and the absence of his healing energy leave her, she grinned.

"I can, I can take her to the medic' tent, to make sure she rests while we withdraw,"

"No, I'm fine." She lifted a hand to gingerly inspect the now healed wound and wrinkled her nose once she found the raised line that was now a scar, the only remnant of the nasty slash she got earlier in combat. She bet it was ghastly, and would now have to cut her lovely hair to hide it. "Wait... no... oh no..." Her voice got quieter as her arms now braced at her sides and she stilled, waiting for the nausea to pass. So that didn't go when she thought it did. "Alright. Maybe I might need a hand to the medic..." She conceded defeat.

 

[Aarno]

It was a bit of a chaos as people found one another in the lull, or didn’t. Many were rushing past, the word medic uttered over and over. He was no such thing, nor had he the conjured strength anymore to carry whomever to one. It had waned significantly since he’d slowed down, leaving behind a bit of a daze.

He’d taken to just stand and meander aimlessly, vision blurring in and out of focus. For the budding pain beneath the brigandine that shallowed the breath, he’d ripped open the aventail. Mail clicked as he turned to commotion, familiar voices as his Kin hurried about.

Some were wounded, badly. Kerraelas, Arbok, their names? A call for Syr Hector. Like a man stupefied, he stared through billowing snowfall as in wake but a second’s hesitation, reins were let go. With not so much a thought as just a feeling he wanted to, he approached the lone horse, a light hobble to his step.

“ There you are— “ He hummed low, bunching the reins loosely under its dark muzzle with one hand as the other stroked along its long face. The touch staid there a little, stare downcast. “ Alright, if weary. I sympathize. “

He didn’t know where his own had gone, lost in the fall he remembered nothing about. But he could hold on to this one, for now, anchoring himself to something until its rider would reclaim it. He tried to smile at it, meeting the dark eyes that peered back calmly.

“ We’re withdrawing, did you hear? “

 

[Byanka Valkas]

Byanka leaned forward, giving Arbok as much strength and willpower as she could to help the bear shift back to a girl. Once she had, Byanka sat back hard, her hand sliding off of Arbok's armor. Blood leaked onto the mat she lay on, as the young Light knight worked her own magic, weaving together Arbok's wounds.

There was a faint rushing in Byanka's ears, and her head felt light, as if it would just float off of her shoulders. She had used too much of her magick too quickly, and she had already been tired from the fight. But Byanka would not let the younger knight turn her attention to her- Arbok was a priority, her injuries life-threatening. Byanka was just a little nauseous.

She shut her eyes, and as Arbok's pain eased bit by bit, so did her own. Once she could see straight and breathe evenly, she knelt forward, carefully taking off Arbok's armor, bit by bit to reveal the injuries beneath. Byanka could tell the young Light knight was beginning to grow weary, so Byanka placed a hand on her shoulder, lending her a bit of strength to continue on. The outside din faded as the two women worked to help their fellow knight.

Arbok
Hector

 

[Arbok]

Beneath her armour Arbok's body was a fresh tapestry of ruptured skin and muscle. In some places it looked like ripped stockings. Such unnatural wounds were most unsightly for all but the most iron stomached. When the cold air kissed her ruined flesh Arbok felt worse than naked, an exposure unlike anything before. Mere embarassment didn't begin to cover it.
Her first real battle since her life as a Squire and here she was, undressed and bleeding from the first scrum.
The healing felt good but when she opened her bleary eyes and waited for them to focus she saw the strain she was putting the other two under.
Her skin healed, scarring over in uneven patches until she tried to move. Flexing her muscles to prepare for her eventual motion.
"I... I'm okay..." She managed mid huff. Talking was more effort than she anticipated.
"I'm okay, you can... Please stop... I don't..."
*I don't want you to hurt yourselves.* She didn't finish but she felt it, tried to will the words into them somehow.
It felt good though, she knew it would stop if they listened. She'd be left with the cold pain but she couldn't be a burden. She wouldn't.
Her legs drew up and she slowly moved onto her stomach trying to brace herself with all of her wracked limbs.
She was always strong so experiencing such weakness frustrated her to no end.
"That's *huff* enough... Nnnggg!"
Her arms shook and in a moment she was face down on the carpeted floor again groaning in defeat and feeling like a fool.

Byanka Valkas
Hector

 

[Hector]

Hector braced the brave faced Syr Kerraelas, the weight of the armored mage knight further strained his tired limbs. But he bared it all the same. He had trained for such burdens. Though all his training could not compare to the frayed feeling of his nerves come shred by all he had experienced.

Gore, still dripped from the lip of his armor. Fresh dents still pinched tight in places here and there. Nothing he could think on now.

Having something to do. Being able to aid as all the camp churned with the motion of retreat. It helped him keep his mind from running back to the clash. To the thunder of hooves and the sizzle of magick fire hot against the cold wind ice.

"You showed great bravery and a level head upon the field, Syr," he said, more to kill the silence from setting around him for too long. "I doubt any would think less of you for needing aid now," he assured her. His eyes looked ever forward, to the banner of the white flower that snapped in the bleeding slate winds. Its blue field bore life's seal just beneath the proud chrysanthemum of their order. ​

---

At the medic's station, the young knight, Arietta, laid her hands upon the disfigured flesh of the large squire. "It is enough, Arbok," she said firmly, pressed down where she felt she could safely apply her weight.

"You have done more than enough," her tone eased some. Kept her eyes away from the hex-marred wounds. "If you want to help us now, you must rest, please," she went on, looked around her, gaze solid despite whatever frailty laid beneath their glassy surface. "Or what magick we've used will be for not,"

The wagons for the wounded rolled into place. Able hands began to transport those unfit to carry on under their own weight.

"Syr Valkas, we will need more help to move her," Syr Arietta gave.
​

---

Saskia Kerraelas Arbok Byanka Valkas ​

 

[Faramund]

Faramund nodded to his brother-knight, before helping Saskia find her feet. Hector -Syr Hector, now- had come a long way from the boy he had once known. Capable, and far more steadfast than the elf he had taken ranging with him of a time. The pride Faramund felt was only tempered by the knowledge that the boy was mortal, and thus...

A war horn sounded, dragging Faramund kicking and screaming from his thoughts.

'Mount up!' he called to the knights around him, stomping back to his own mount through the churned snow. Officially speaking, he lacked the authority to give orders to his peers. But Syr Eironmar had given them clear instruction before departing to find the Lord Dunstable with Farren. Echoing his command crossed no boundaries. Plus, Faramund, like a few others among them, had veterancy on his side.

'Syr Lóthlindor, will you join us?' he asked, vaulting up and into his saddle. Gruki, mountain on legs that she was, clambered up into her own saddle alongside him. 'And you Syr Aarno? Are you well enough to-' A sudden ringing in Faramund's ears cut him off.

He looked to the battle-line. Blood streamed from his nose to paint his beard red as the ringing grew worse.

'They're coming,' he said, a second before his eardrums collapsed under the pressure. Cresting the hill in an unbroken line, the men under Lord Järnberg's command hove into view. Shields up, weapons levelled, they crossed over the dead mercenaries and Dunstables without even pausing to loot.

The reason why became abundantly clear a few moments later.

Oh, fuck me sideways, the dawnling thought, foregoing any hasty commands by drawing his steel. His sabre, its blade dark as sin and sharper still, damn near hummed as it was exposed to the cold air.

'Ride!' he shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the wind and panicked cries of the infantrymen too slow to abandon camp. One of them, a man wearing an eyepatch and a sergeant's sash, seemingly burst at random, his blood creating a fine mist that blinded those around him.

Lord Järnberg's men rallied at the sight. Did they even realise they were in as much danger as their enemy?

'Back, now! Back!' Syr Eironmar rode into view, his light a beacon of hope in the swirling white. The Pursuant saw the flesh construct, and the dark smear of painted shields. Faramund saw his lips move in a quiet curse.

'Come on!' He yelled again, leading by example. The cavalry wing spurred into action after him. A knight with the sense to grab Syr Hector's reins rushed to the wagons carrying the wounded.

'Mount up, Syr!' He shouted, whirling to rejoin the rest of the knights as they made to screen the retreating column.

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Wings rested from dormant moments shivered in response to the blast of sound signalling the next phase of this battle. Duty bound to take to the skies, Montbank looked up and ascended with wide spread cloak of beating feather, ascending, ascending to see the battle array as it morphed into compelled motion. The light from Syr Eironmar served better than any banner might to mark the heading he circled. And circle he did, with plans within avian mind colliding with the formations actual and encroaching, and with arcing wing did he make high born approach to those who pursued.

First, a release from up high of flash stones, hurled from talon liberally in clusters at the amassed foe to dazzle, searing eyes with after image of white, forcing men to stumble blind. Then the writhing vines of ensnarement, clasped with hand and tossed out at precious places of snow to clasp at boot, binding and causing much stumbling in the marching as they snagged and pulled.

And then away, away and circling again, ammunition spent in indirect fire. Small actions might carry the larger day, and so was it that Montbank made minor mark upon the men who set against them.

Montbank returned in wide angle, and lingered near to the beacon light, wishing himself close to the actions that would may demand further interjection of shining steel from white wing. Silently he flew, eyes scanning around for that which might surprise his comrades. Altitude middling so he might swoop and respond, Montbank glided, sliding steel from tight born scabbard in readiness to strike as warrior whim dictated.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren clenched her teeth against the sudden psionic pressure assaulting her ears. Her ears being cold enough that the hot blood that now dripped from them felt like burning fire. "Fuck." Farren growled under her breath.

Horses charged by her and out of their makeshift camp to meet the opposing line, the wind from their passing whipping her braid against her frigid cheek. She could feel exhaustion pulling at her limbs, but she refused to acknowledge it. Her life was not her own this day. There was wounded that needed to reach sanctuary, and the only thing standing between them and the steel of Järnberg's men, was the resolve of the rest who stood against them.

She had no horse, but she needed to get to the field as fast as she could. They didn't have to defeat their enemy this day, but they could maim their calvary. Slow them enough where the innocent could escape.

The memory of Syr Brambleshell's wise words carried Farren's feet into a sprint, "In the dance of life, sometimes the greatest strength lies not in resistance, but in adaptation."

Adapt.

Adapt like nature or die in her wake.

Silver flames sprung to life and swallowed Farren. Her footfalls became the four beats of impetuous paws once more in the snow.

Faster. Not close enough. Almost. Keep running, keep going. The sharp air burned her lungs even while she focused on the earth beneath her — on the dormant roots that had gone abed for the winter.

With the Wild singing in her blood, Farren called to them now. Commanded the earth to wake. To shake off their slumber and wreak havoc in her name.

The ground rumbled and shifted. Reluctant tendrils tore free from their wintry repose, breaking through the snow-laden soil, springing forth like angry grasping fingers. The approaching calvary on her left, wasn't fast enough to avoid it, and charged headlong into the tangled, gnarled roots.

The resulting pile-up was swift and unforgiving, men crashing into each other in disarray. Horses tripped and legs broke, and mercenaries went down in rotational falls to be crushed under their screaming steeds. The tangled mass of fallen horses and men rendered the left flank now ineffective.

Faramund Hector Saskia Kerraelas Theolonious Montbank Arbok Byanka Valkas Aarno

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

The command to ride forth rang out, filling Saskia with dread. She looked to Hector, shooting him a grimace before pulling herself from his aide. Already, she called for the tides of her shadows to meet with her, pulling them from the battlefield where they waited patiently for her. They rushed past the dead, injured, and advancing, and Saskia felt them all.

She stiffened, flicking her gaze to where she felt the strange energy. As soon as her amber eyes fell on the forsaken imagery, her ears pierced with pain. The shadows faltered, continuing the orders to go to their maiden that awoken them.

"What is that thing?" And how do we destroy it? She could not bring herself to ask the latter, not when she saw there were still injured allies retreating as those that are able to return to the frontlines, now battered and bruised.

She did not wait for anyone to answer her, moving forward to guide and beckon the injured as her shadows assisted in helping to carry the dead weight of those that cannot walk. Doing so gave her chance to catch her breath, to stabilise herself before even thinking to ride out again.

Saskia watched as they anxiously made the last few feet before moving forward again, joining other knights taking up the rear of their offensive charge. As she ran, she willed shadow to pull her horse to meet with her as her hand lifted. Her sword hauntingly came to life and dragged by a tendril of her casting across the snow from where it fell beside her horse and returned the hilt to her awaiting hand.

Within seconds, her boot found proper footing and swung her leg over to mount her horse. She was near the rear of the force returning to the field, but in her wake, what remained of her shadows rippled. Syr Kerraelas could only hope that the night would soon arrive, and then the entirety of the battlefield would awaken with her casting.

 

[Byanka Valkas]

Syr Arietta continued to help Arbok, hiding any signs that she might be tired. Arbok struggled to get up but to no avail, her skin pulling over freshly healed wounds. "Be still," Byanka said, putting both her hands on the girl's side as Arietta continued to work.

She heard shouts from outside the tent as some of the knights mounted to return to battle. There was a strange pressure pushing on her ears and it gave Byanka a headache but she pushed it away, focusing on Arbok, even as her sword seemed to hum at her side. She wasn't even totally sure her horse was still outside, especially after the commotion and strange, intrusive pressure.

She stayed by Arbok's side, lending both Arietta and Arbok strength, if only mentally. But that was all that mattered wasn't it? Your mind could make you believe you were strong enough to go on even if your body could not.

 

[Arbok]

It wasn't fair.
Syr's Arrietta and Byanka were already pushing themselves and here she was, soaking it up like an unwilling sponge.
"You can't..."
*Can't what? Can't stop me? I can barely sit up, let alone fight.*
The three smoking wounds still billowed smoke that streamed onto the ground before dispersing.
These wounds closed slowest, hardest and last.
At the last it hurt so much Arbok had to bite her own hand to stop from yelling.
Then the pain was gone mostly. The foul wounds and their awful smoke were only scars. Her body was practically patchwork now. Skin, fresh and tender pink like burn marks now blotched a majority of her body and face.
As she came round and her mind cleared she found she was short of breath as well as clothing.
Arbok was as healed as she was going to get and she was glad of it to see that both Arrietta and Byanka were seemingly unharmed. Tired and hurt but...
Arbok noticed that Byanka looked a bit peaky.
"You, did..." It hurt her teeth to talk, the felt loose in her mouth.
"You hurt yourself..."
Slowly she reached over to put her hand on Byanka's knee in a supportive and grateful nature then turned to Arrietta, concerned.
"Both of you... You shouldn't have done that."
Her voice was gravel, the typical softness gone but for the emotion her tired tone carried.

Byanka Valkas
Faramund

 

[Hector]

A pull and push, as horns blared and calls rang out as the magicked air shook and thrummed. Rattled his very bones. But he stood tall and wide eyed as he stared at the creature with many hands, and silver colored orb hoisted high.

What is that ting?

"The Enemy," Hector said plain and cold as dark memories swilred about. The strange fruit they had found on patrol, not last winter. A greater fiend, that had taken The Killing Light. Two knights dead, and nothing more than ringing in his ears.

Reins were thrust in his direction, snapping him out of his episode. Syr Kerraelas broke off to aid as best she could, her shadowlings lending their magick strength to the cause of assistance. All there was to do now, was act.

Mounted, Hector urged the steed forward, drew his runed sword from its sheath, and joined Eironmar's line of cavalry. The screen held ground, their weapons at the ready, their horses full of nerves. Fear was electric in the air.

"Syrs!" He called out. Looked to Eironmar and then Faramund. "I, I believe that creature sees through the silver orb!" he looked to Eironmar who digested the information. The pursuant nod, as he kept his magicks willed. The golden light of life, acting as a shield against cursed magicks for those gathered in the cav.

"Syr Faramund!" The pursuant called out amidst the din, eyes ever fixed on the enemy. "You've fought such a thing, have you not? Downed one in Alliria," he grinned. "Any advice, Syr?"

---

Loaded onto the medical wagon, Arietta wore a gentle smile. Tired and pained, but no less true. "Someone must help guard the wounded in the medicaments wagon," she said to Byanka more than Arbok, gathered up the blanket and helped wrap it around the big woman.

Someone slapped the side of the wagon. "Alright, go! Aint no time to load anyone else!" The drivers called out to others ahead of them, snapped their reins, and the wagon lurched forward, slow to follow the retreating forces of Dunstable's men.

Arietta looked out, worried as she watched tha cavalry form up against their encroaching foe.

Faramund Saskia Kerraelas Arbok Byanka Valkas

 

[Aarno]

It came time to part. Left to his own, he met eyes with Faramund in passing as the man called out his name, questioning. His hand landed on the hilt of his sword, more out of habit than fighting spirit.

Fit enough to — What exactly? On foot, not much but to aid the rest on their way to withdraw remained, as he found himself fresh out of a mount.

There was no space to answer, nor would his voice have carried over the screaming. Sluggishly, he looked around as people animated to hastier motion at the sight of an approaching assault, some in a nigh scatter belongst to roaches. A man, his mouth shouting orders and figure fast coming towards in a march, suddenly was no more. Way too literally for his liking, reduced to a red dusting on the ground and his kinsmen.

What exactly is happening, or is yet to?

Fuck if he knew anything anymore, beyond what the orders were. Swallowing, he turned on heel and weaved past the gathering cavalry. One of the infantrymen, yet wiping blood from his eyes and gasping for air for it, was given a steady grasp on the shoulder.

“ That way to retreat. Now. “ Even as the man started, Aarno held on and kept his pace, pushing at a direction.

“ Sergeant Ahlgren, he fucking— “ A wild gesture, at nothing.

“ Yes, I saw it too. “

 

[Byanka Valkas]

Byanka helped Arietta lift Arbok onto a wagon. She nodded when the other woman spoke. Protect. That she could do.

The cool air helped clear her head and she subconsiously wiped her bloody hands on the blanket wrapped around Arbok. Byanka took a deep breath, cold air cleansing her lungs as she placed a gentle hand on Arbok's head. She would be easier to protect if she was sleeping, and her body's natural healing process could kick in.

"You can rest now, shut your eyes," Byanka said, her voice soft and warm like a mother's or maybe that was just her magic pushing forward one last time. She would lead Arbok to sleep with dreams of warmth and comfort as the wagon moved, trudging through the snow, following their retreating forces. Once she was sure Arbok was asleep and Arietta was alright, she slid from the wagon as it still moved, her feet running as soon as they hit the ground. Another wagon came in her direction and she got out of the way, moving past those fleeing to where other knights held the defense line, their eyes trained on that strange creature with many arms.

 

[Faramund]

'With a little help from my friends,' the dawnling replied, going knee to knee with the riders to either side. 'Blades and magic work just fine, if you can get close enough.' The construct, or the person set to control it, wasn't completely dumb. It was using the bodies of the men in front of it to shield itself whilst it worked.

Faramund felt a cold hand brush against his psyche, searchingly. He shivered.

'Think it's looking for me,' he said, grimacing as the air around him buzzed with unseen energy. It's trying to burst me, he thought, his nosebleed worsening. 'Syr Hector was right about the orb,' he continued, ignoring the fear in his heart. 'Destroying it will leave it disoriented, but not completely blind.'

Faramund had learnt that the hard way. He still felt a phantom pain in his thigh from when he had been wounded in Alliria. It ached from time to time, as if to remind him he was still alive.

Was he?

Syr Eironmar nodded. 'Very well,' he said, raising his weapon above his head. The cold iron pulsed with heavenly light, pushed back the storm raging all around them. 'With me, now! At the canter!' The small line of mounted knights started to move, even as the column behind them surged in the opposite direction. The wounded had been loaded, the dead left to suffer the cold. The living hurried to get away.

The Chrysanthemums bought them time, pace quickening as Eironmar signalled one, last charge against the enemy ranks, and the abomination in their midst.

Levelling his sabre, Faramund cried his challenge as the cavalry charged forth. Bringing his weapon down, Pursuant Eironmar unleashed his holy light on the Construct and the men protecting it. Warriors shouted in alarm as they closed their eyes against the blinding light hurtling towards them. Some raised their shields, dipping spears to receive the charge.

Saskia's shadows swept towards their flanks, avoiding the light and keeping the other warriors in the line busy. Farren did something to the enemy horse. Faramund didn't see. He couldn't.

Swivelling, rotating, the orb held in the construct's overly-large hand stopped spinning some brief moments before the knights crashed home. All this time, it had been looking for one thing in particular. A construct, much like itself, albeit one that believed itself to be human. Distance, and the man-construct's high resistance to magic had made the search... problematic.

But not impossible.

And now it had found him.

 

[Arbok]

The cart hurt. The blanket hurt.
Now Arrietta was talking about something she couldn't hear and Byanka was stroking her head, telling her to go to sleep.
"Sleep? That's... The... Laast... Thing... I'll..."
And Arbok slept. Byanka's touch was warm and her words soothing despite the discomfort Arbok felt.
The parting thought before dreamless sleep took her was of Arrietta and Byanka and how much she owed them.
Then, right before the end came Saskia and the others who were still fighting and Arbok hoped they would all be safe.


Arbok has left the scene.
Byanka Valkas Saskia Kerraelas Aarno Hector Faramund Farren Lóthlindor kristofer

 

[Hector]

All came to crash and thunder. Bathed in Life's golden light, shadows there danced betwixt the chaos, as spell's bright dazzled across blade and armor. Blinded eye of mortal's embroiled in the crunch. A madness to it. Pitched and red. A violence.

Hector could feel the fear surge through his steed. Gallant beast that it was, it had charged along with its fellows. Had raced forward at its rider's behest. But now. As all shout and screamed, ripped and tore, it wanted none of it. A kick. A bight. Spear scraped off the barding. Hector beat the weapon away. Hacked down with wrath's cut.

A splitting pain nailed through his ears. Breath caught in his lungs as his gaze was pulled toward the construct. Beheld the long toothed grin. The many arms. The silver sphere of pewter in one hand. Its eyeless face turned to him. Its head clicked as its fingers plucked and pulled at the threads of arcane energies.

A hard weight slammed against Hector's chest. Rocked his whole body back. A long mace had cracked into him. Brought his senses back to steel and blood. A second slam. The heavy head of mace reared back as Hector looked. His horse backed, head whipped to one side as it turned away.

It was done. It would leave. With Hector atop it or not, and the young knight was doing his damnedest to keep mounted.