| Shadow On The Walls |
| Summary: | Less than a week after the last attack upon the Galenthians trapped in Rikton… you guessed it. |
| Date: | Novembre 28th, 1866 |
| Related: | Anything and everything to do with the Sealing of Rikton. |
| NPCs: | {$npc} |
| Players: |
       
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| Rikton - Lower Rikton - Courtyard - Romante Manse |
| The white cobbled path that leads in from the street is well worn, with a touch of greenery either side. Flowers bloom along the walls, ivy crawls and set about the courtyard neatly and symmetrically are four stone benches. The white stone house that is lead to by the cobbled path is as equal as the next either side, two storeys and with leaded windows gazing out upon the street from each level and an ornate wooden door allowing entrance to the building, above which the Cross of Rikton is chiselled. |
| Novembre 28th, 1866 |
The holy city is calm despite the blackened sky trapped in perpetual twilight with the blood red Summer Moon hanging forlorn and alone with neither stars, clouds or the Winter Moon to keep it company. Neither rain, nor fog has come over the city despite the perpetual fog that fell the night of the event, but nor has sun, or wind. It is as if the City is Dead and the residents, members of the deceased.
However, despite the perpetual feeling of the dead to the city, the occupants are very much alive and active. As is the case in the Galenthia corner of the Manse District of Rikton. The Sokar Manse, having been abandoned for decades has been used as spare parts to reinforce the Galenthian remaining manses of Tarris, Arkanin and Romante. Rumor has it that the Duchess of Romante arrived during the confusion of the Sealing, and gave birth to twins. One of which just might be if rumors can be believed, the heir of the Kingdom of Galenthia itself.
As such, everyone is on alert while they wait for the riots to die down. The Order Militant having declared to move to this area last, there have been sightings of strange men lurking about. And even stranger bits of garments have been found.
The High granite walls, already wide enough for a walkway, are manned at both Tarris and Arkanin, a place that somebody would have to go through to get to Romante. All set up by one Thomas Chandus, Baron of the Tarris Duchy. The Duke of Romante, Letholdus walks calmly in his Templar armor and surcoat, though his shield bears the white griffon of his house. He moves to stand next to Thomas and others gathered this night. At least one might think it is night, given the unending twilight. He nods to Thomas. "Baron." He says evenly. "Despite Our past. You have my thanks. I could not have organized this." He nods to the others present. "And my thanks to you all. It brings me joy to know in this time of crisis that we Galenthians can stand as one."
Looking a bit more relaxed now than he did before all of this trouble, the Sokar heir is dressed in his armor and with his poleaxe, with daggers at his belt. He looks around rather thoughtfully, remaining quiet for now.
She had to play the game. Give something to get something. Yes, Galenthian loyalties ran deep within her veins, but what she truly wished to do was make it back to her ship and crew. She knew she would not be able to do so alone. She would make it there in time. Thus, until such time she decided to offer whatever assistance she could in securing and consolidating the manses. Nobody could question her loyalty and tus this evening she found herself among those gathered, standing off by herself, yet her attention given to the men of obvious importance and leadership. She will remain quiet for now; watching, waiting.
Surprisingly, Thomas is up and about. After a close range hand cannon shot to the chest, without armour, one might have thought him down and out. Luckily for him, though, the shot was a through and through, missing any vital organs and even better, he had the healing skill of Duchess Claire Romante behind him. Looking fairly hale and hearty, Baron Chandus of Repton March strides into the room that the Galenthians are using as a headquarters, several rooms into the building's bottom floor. As he passes Letholdus on his way out, Thomas nods at him. "You have my sword and shield, your Grace, and for our Kingdom I am at your disposal." He is wearing his dulled set of heavy lorrica armour - a steel banded plate cuirass, long greaves and cuisses covering his legs, gauntlets vambrace and a helmet with a cobalt blue plume tucked under his arm. His oval shield painted in the Chandus colours is strapped to his back and further, he's armed.
"Good eve… I think." Greets the Baron upon entry into the headquarters, his eyes snapping to the Charwin made clock at the wall. "Ah yes, evening indeed. Thank you all for gathering here. I just inspected the troops in the Tarris manse and those manning standing patrols. Things are looking good, but defences aren't complete by any means."
In amongst the other scouts on the walls of the Tarris manse stands a certain northerner, almost out of place amidst the group. There is no lute upon Philippe's back this time, but rather good Galenthian leather armour and a short sword. Those ever-aware blue eyes watch outwards into the dark. It…seems to be about time that those other talents of his may be needed.
Up to the Romante manse comes an Aequoran, looking as out of place as one might expect; the lady Myrana D'Armaz approaches the gate, carrying a lantern at the side of her skirts and wearing a cutlass low at one hip, though that is in its sheathe. Her long black hair is braided down her back and her face is ghostly white in the bloody dark.
In point of fact the suggestion to connect the Tarris and Arkanin fortifications and annexe the Romante manse in between, which had at that stage been chiefly abandoned, was voiced first by Baroness Quinn of Ghost Hills: but who's counting. All that matters is that the work is proceeding apace, the bridges built and the side streets blocked, every approach to the Galenthians and their present guarantee against another civil war becoming by the day or by the hour more difficult for mere mortal enemies to breach.
Having so much to do does of course also take the men's minds off the question of whether the boarded-up alleyways and the proposed obstacle course will do much to hinder the progress of anybody who can transform wood till it's harder than steel, move unsuspecting pregnant ladies and their servants and their dogs across hundreds of miles in an instant, and cause the moon above to weep bloody tears… It's all still on Gisela Quinn's mind, however, as (flanked by a pair of her knights) she seizes the opportunity to take a little fresh air (and how much of that, she wonders idly, have we got? The wind dropped, didn't it, Sunday midnight, and she's not felt much of a breeze since) in the courtyard of the Romante manse and admire the arch of the nearer bridge. Beautifully done. Sound work. A pleasant stretching of one's legs after too many hours today spent in enclosed chambers, conscientiously not throttling the possessors of a number of oversized masculine egos nurtured in the fertile climate of Wayston; and before making her way indoors to a meeting lately called by Duke Letholdus. She has been living in her dark green brigandine this week. She's wearing it again, and the usual sword and hand cannon that go so well with her walking stick.
Some small commotion by the gates draws her attention as she approaches the front doors: she turns, takes a couple of steps along the path, and then… "Let her in," she calls, "she'll be a Galenthian in four months. Might as well make a start."
The gate is the only place in the Romante manse that's actually been reinforced as yet. On its rear, strong wooden crossbeams salvaged from the Sokar manse have been fastened to make it sturdier, and struts placed on the ground to make it more difficult to batter down. A gaggle of guards wearing surcoats in the orange and yellow Gwynain colours over their mail armour have spears leaned on their shoulders. One of them casts a glance at Myrana. "Business here?" The guard turns his head around at Gisela, a surprised look gracing his face. "Uh… yes y'Excellency." No more protest comes from them and they move to open the gate for Myrana.
Shadow loomed ona rooftop across the way from the Galenthians. They ahd been give time to fortify. Why? Why hadn't the Master just ALLOWED him to crush these insignificant gnats. They were nothing but food, why should prey be allowed to defend?
He growled slightly. An un human sound, and the man near him flinched ever so slightly. He bowed his head and said with no trace of fear, "Your orders My lord?"
No sound of fear, but Shadow SMELLED it. He smirked and then nodded befor ehe whispered. "The Sentries. Kill them. Quietly. If discovered have a small contingent assault where the discovery is. Then send the rest over the walls at the Tarris Manse." He smiles darkly. "Burn everything. But save me a woman. They taste better, especially when smoked and afraid."
The man bowed his head slightly. "By your Leave my Lord." Then, he dissapeared. Shadow smirked. Mortals were food, but they were necessary. As this mortal had proved. Though he doubted ANY of the Mortals could see them, the cult moved form darkened corner to darkened corner. Bows in hand. Some begining to take aim at the sentries at the proposed entry point.
Shadow smiled, his Canines prominent. Soon the blood letting would begin. Soon. He could feast.
"Yes," says Myrana, and then as Gisela calls to the guards she takes a step inside through the open gate, skirts murmuring about her legs and casting the light off to one side in rippling beams. "I heard Lady Claire was here; I've come to help tend to her."
The Baroness lingers by the open front doors, watching her enemy's daughter come alone up the path to meet her. "Lady Myrana. What a surprise. You're acquainted with the Duchess…?" she inquires in a pleasant drawl. "And to think I supposed you'd come to pay a call upon my cousin. You'll leave your weapons in this fellow's charge," she nods to one of the guards flanking the entrance, "and then of course you're most welcome to come in; I'll see that word of your arrival is sent up. The Duchess hasn't been receiving a great deal, you understand, but I'm certain… in the case of an old friend." She lifts an eyebrow, lending a hint of amused sarcasm to her words — she's not altogether certain how a d'Armaz and a Romante are so intimate.
Shrugging a little as he seems to debate something with himself, Jarret looks around once more, shaking his head a little. Not quiten listening to the others nearby, he shakes his head once more. Looking around more carefully now, while still keeping quiet.
Damn the blasted darkness. Makes it so hard to see anything. Of course, Philippe knows this…and, as a point, he takes care to examine all those dark corners. Of course…that's nearly the entire street…as well as the rooftops, and pretty much everything just outside of the fortified manse. Still…at least he is looking. And…from his view, he happens to spy a certain Aequorian lady he knows. One that he does not greet from on high. No sense drawing attention to himself.
"Baroness Quinn," Myrana doesn't curtsey. The rime of ice on her words is only barely disguised by sheer force of will, not spilling precisely into rudeness, but not exactly leaping into warmth either. "Yes, Lady Claire and I are friends. You'll excuse me if I don't leap at the chance to leave anything of mine in your possession."
Myrana says, "Is she well?"
She did not know many here. Captain Isabella spent most of her time at sea. However, she knew Thimas from the other night and had met Letholdus once before at an Alicante soiree when she was a bit younger. Yet, she finds it best to still listen. She is here to offer whatever assistance is needed, and will do as she is told. She is dressed for any altercation and for now stands aginast a side wall, taking out a small flask and draining a sip before tucking in back into her breast.
"Baroness Quinn." Letholdus says in an even tone. "This is not Arkanin lands. The Lady d'Armaz is known and TRUSTED by both myself and my Lady Wife the Duchess. If she wishes to be armed, I'll gladly take one more arred personage." He states evenly as he nods to Myrana by way of greeting. He looks the Aequaran over carefully. Then he speaks to Myrana. "My Lady. I trust I need not inform you that this is not Arkanin terriotry either. Your war is over, and this is certianly NOT those lands. I wlecome you however, as I know Claire could use a freind." He bows his head to her.
The scouts of House Riven have drawn sentry duty for the evening over at the Tarris Manse, along with their fellow Easterners of Houses Verynn, Teser and Ryker. Standing on various areas of the wall, especially the wall facing out into an open area on Saint Lanard's Way, they are bored in the manner that sentries usually are. Corporal Herbert, the tough looking Riven scout commander of partial Parthian heritage is busy inspecting one of the sentry posts. He leans over to light his pipe away from sight and feels a spray of warm fluid splash on his cheek. His eyebrows knit inward, before the body of one of his troopers comes tumbling off the wall next to him. "What in the…" In a terrified manner, he looks over to the next sentry post, where Philippe stands. His mouth opens to say something and then - nothing comes out, other than an arrow from his chest. He collapses.
"Lady Isabella, a pleasure to see you. Sir Jarret, likewise. I do believe that we've still got work to do, perhaps once the lads have gotten some sleep. The obstacles around the Manses aren't in place… I want those put in tomorrow. Anyhting to slow the movement of a prospective foes. Further, we need to put up more sentry posts on the walls. Once that happens, we can settle into an identifiable routine…" Thomas trails off, having motioned all over the map of the area which is on the table, identifying exactly where he wants these tasks completed.
Seeing Letholdus in the torch and lamplight, Myrana relaxes a little and offers the man a wry smile. "You've forgiven me the elephant brocade then," she says, bowing politely. "Of course. Its an ugly circumstance to give birth in this gloom, but I'll help however I can." A look to Gisela, and this one less prickly: "If Kalon is here I suppose I might see him, but that wasn't my thought, no."
Baroness Quinn raises her eyebrows, and jerks the gauntleted thumb of her free hand at the guard she indicated before as the ideal repository of any weaponry the little d'Armaz might be bristling with in secret. "Romante manse, Romante man. I've no interest in rifling your pockets personally, my dear Lady Myrana," she drawls. Then, hearing the voice of Duke Letholdus and turning to him with one eye still on Lady Myrana, she adds with an inclination of her head a courteous yet slightly pointed: "I hope you'll forgive my reluctance to allow any person bearing arms and as yet unvouched for into the presence of your wife and children, Your Grace. I'll leave you, then, to exchange your news." Her dark gaze swerves once more back to the d'Armaz, and then, trailing knights, she steps past him and further into the manse, looking for either the meeting which was supposed to commence at about this hour or, failing that, a chair of some sort. Her frequent habit, to sit when she can so as to stand and walk when she must.
One thing that is certainly a learned skill from the circles that the bard has travelled is a keen sense of self-preservation. The blue eyes catch the sentry post…and two dropping from what is obviously arrows. The instinct takes over, as Philippe presses himself up against an outcropping, dropping down enough to reduce his profile.
Yes…he's hiding. But, with a voice as loud as a trained bard can muster, he shouts outloud. "We're under attack! Arrows!" In case you are wondering, Philippe can yell quite loud. Quite loud, indeed.
And…it is a good thing Philippe moved. If he had stood a moment longer, he would have surely taken an arrow to the face. As it is, it just nicks the left cheek, drawing a thin line of blood as the bard throws himself into his cover position.
Isabella nods to the instructions and words spoken to her by Baron Chandus. "M'lord. If I might be of any assistance in organizing the sentries I would be more than happy to do so. It is much like rotating watches on a ship." However, there is little time for any more words as the cry from Phillipe rings out. Her eyes go wide and she looks to Thomas and Letholdus as to what she is to do." Tho, her hand goes to her sword and the other rests on the flintlock at her hip.
"Identifiable routine…" Jarret mutters darkly, shrugging a little as he does. Isabella is studied rather carefully, before he offers her a nod. Looking about to say something, when he hears the shout abut attack, he goes quiet from that instead. "About bloody time…" he mutters, moving at least a bit closer to the doors, keeping his poleaxe ready.
Philippe's cry, which is strong and loud, quickly becomes more muffled as distance goes. However, the sentries on the outer wall of the Tarris manse were not the only ones; a small horn made from that of a goat is quickly brought to bear to blow the alarm, followed by others in quick succession. All over the three manses, Tarris, Arkanin and Romante, people begin to yell, "To arms, to arms, enemies at the Tarris manse!" Troops who were idling around form into ad-hoc groupings, while those who were sleeping or off duty desparately throw on their armour and weapons in order to man their posts. But where are the enemies exactly?
Shadow smiles as men murder the Galenthians on the walls. With casual disregard for the height he stnads and steps off the walls. He lands ina crouch and pulsl his hood up to cover his head and begins to walk carelessly toward the wall as Philippe's cry of warning goes up. Good. The food will begin to panic. "Attack." He says evenly.
With a cry, men stream from buildings and alleys, bearing mostly gladii and arming dagger, with a few two handed monstrasities out there. He stretches hsi arms wide as the menflow past him like a river. "Kill them all. Save some for me to FEAST!" He calls out.
Then resumes his casual walk.
Men throw up ropes and grapels and begin to climb. As others kneel with arrows to cover them. Rooftops also find men with crossbows and more than one long cannon. Somewhere a shot rings out.
Letholdus's head snaps up at the call fo attack and he narrows his eyes. He rolls his shoulder. "CHANDIS!" he calls out. "See to command. I have the front." He nods once and draws his blade, one that was returned to him by the man who had kille dhis father. Restored and made as ornate as it is deadly. Which is to say extremely. The weapon glitters off lantern light. "FOR THE ROSE CROWN!" He calls and moves to mount the stairs.
Thomas is quite obviously surprised at the cries. Carefully set plans are discarded now in favour of the simple ones. The Baron places his open face helmet on his head, doing up the chinstrap and draws his broadsword from its sheath. Finally, his oval shield comes down. "Well, Lady Isabella, this adds some urgency to that sentry problem. Go see to the sentires at the Tarris side - take those men there," he motions to five Orbe infantry in mail shirts, fellow vassals to Alicante, "and get them straightened out! Sir Jarret! Time to get that axe to bear, eh?" He's smiling. Despite the ruin of the plans, he does well in the chaos. "Officers! Serjeants! Get your men together and fall into defensive formations. Sun Shields, on me!" He calls his own infantry, a half platoon of men with the sun in splendor on their shields who follow him. He's heading in the direction of the barracks, in order to make sure that the troops are doing what they need to do.
Gasping, Myrana turns around and takes a step back as she does so. God what terrible timing! Stunned, she gropes for Ardaigh, lantern swinging in her right hand as she ducks back quickly behind a pillar to avoid the hailed arrows.
Nodding a bit as he hears Thomas, offering the man a brief grin, Jarret steps outside. Looking to the Sokar man who was waiting out there, he gives the man the orders to bring the rest of the Sokar people present to join the fight. That done, he hurries off towards where he can face the enemies. And possibly help keeping Letholdus alive as well. "So it begins…" he mutters to himself.
Her orders were given. It was not often that Isabella took orders, but in this situation she was doing just that. The five Orbe men are instructed to follow her and she hasitly leads them across the newly built bridge to the Tarris Manse and along its walls. Her order was to call the sentries to her aid, yet when she gets there she finds that the sentries have all been slain. She draws her sword in one hand and a flintloc in the other, motioning to the five Orbe men. "Defend the Bridge. We must hold the Bridge." Her eyes scan the darkness for more allies. "If you still stand…to me!." She looks out from the wall looking for a potential target, her hand cannon hand raised.
The forces in the Romante manse are ably moving into their blocking positions under the direction of their Corporals, Serjeants and officers. Several extra platoons of men at arms in a variety of house colours with a variety of weapons sweep outside the Romante manse, taking up positions and ready for any enemy. Meanwhile, archers take their places within the manse, using reinforced windows as makeshift turrets.
The men at the Tarris manse, who are neither all of the Tarris troops nor all Tarris but rather a mix of troops from different Galenthian houses, move towards the wall after readying themselves as best as they can. It's obvious that the Tarris manse is overwhelmed and surprised and their orders are to withdraw over the bridge. The problem - they get there just as the enemies do. A confused, brutal melee begins near the ramp leading up to the bridge that Isabella and her section occupy.
Gripping the handle to the Galenthian gladius he was given, Philippe leans his back against his precarious cover. First…the conscripted scout takes stock of his situation. No archers left on his side. Damn…that is going to make things all the more difficult. Second, the bard shifts just a bit, sending a wary eye out to beyond his position, to spy what the attack plan is. Archers on the roof, looking for targets. A stream of men storming the fortifications…and a tall man, just casually walking forward. Not good. Not good at all.
"Damn it. Knew I should have learned to shoot a bow." Another hand reaches down, around the back, tugging on the hidden dirk. Well…might as well get to it.
Another call is heard. The same strong voice as before. "Archers on the rooftops across the way. Possible leader approaching on street level." Now…enough of the play-by-play. Time to earn his keep.
Shadow approaches the wall and as his people climb, he casually, as if skipping over a lop, leaps up, grabs a section of the wall, and hauls himself up. He lands on teh Wall top at the same time as men ordered from Thomas get there. He smiles at the approaching Galenthians with raised weapons.
"I must say. This si MUCH better than skulking. It has been too long." He says with a slight slurr causes by his canines. A man rushes forward, sword at the ready, only to suddenly find Shadow has him by the throat. He pulls the man forward and rips out the side of his throat as the manlets loose a terrible scream.
He turns as Philippe calls out and Shadow smiles. "ahhhhhh." He says with a bloddied face. "The little alarm." He drops the now limp Glanethian, as others come up the wall. "I wonder how you'll taste." He then ebgins to casually walk, which is more of a stalk, toward Philippe. He lickes his lips clean of blood as he does.
Letholdus hears a gunshop. Hears the cry of warning for archers and growls. "Damnit!" then sees men approach on teh bridge near Isabela. He charges forward shield raised and slams into the press of men, his balde ripping a ragged but non fatal line against a man. "Lady Isabela!" He states getting into a position with men nearby. "Keep up fire with the ranged troops. Try to force them back!" his blade whips out agian, preparing to attack another black clad man. "ROMANTE!" He cries.
For some people, battle might be a thing that'll make them panic. For others, it brings a kind of peace. Jarret is in the second category, as evident from how relaxed he looks, while still bringing out the poleaxe to meet their attackers. "Well, look who's come here to die…" he remarks, trying to stab the spike at the top of the weapon through one of the attackers.
It is chaos. Close combat. It is what Isabella thrives upon. Well, the combat she has been in has been upon the deck of a ship and that is about as close as you can get. As her flintlock is pointed foward and out below, a figure scrambles over the wall and suprises her. She steps back and fires, placing a shot into the figures forehead, some blood splattering forward to her person. The figures body slumps back over the wall and falls to the ground below. Her eyes go wide as she returns the flintlock to her hip, drawing the other and then looks to the five Orbe men.
"On my command! Fire downward at the base of the wall!" The Orbe men step foward and all at once draw their bows. She raises her cutlass and drops it. "Fire!" The volley of arrows is released as the dull sounds of arrows hitting flesh." She raises the cutlass once more and they reload. "Fire!" Another volley rips out into the enemmy as the Pirate Captain and her 5 Orbe men do their best to defend the bridge.
Apparently, it has been effective as a large group of the enemy at the base of the wall run to seek cover slowing the assault for the moment.
Wait….that guy, the one that Philippe identified as the leader, just appeared on the wall. How the bloody hell did that happen? And…blood on the face? And those canines?! Who does this guy think he is, a vampire?! The little alarm, as Philippe has been so named, is certainly alarmed. There might be a bit of fear in his expression. But…then the cockiness that only a master performer possesses bleeds its way through Philippe's demeanor, as the fear gives way to (insanity?) sarcasm. "Oh, I wouldn't want to taste me. Why, I just had a whole bottle of wine and you know you want to keep a clear head for your little tete a tete here. Wouldn't want to impare your judgement now, would we?"
The gladius is drawn with the right hand….while the dirk is freed from its hidden sheath from the back. With both weapons drawn, glittering in the crimson light of the moon, the bard shakes his head. "Might be best to try someone else, I think."
Damn, Philippe's a stupid one, isn't he?
A skinny boy in the employ of House Aseno manages to make it through the press to find Thomas outside the Romante manse with the strong group of Sun Shields, telling the Baron about what's going on at the bridge between Tarris and Romante. He nods gruffly and sends the boy back to his unit, though the boy appears to be quite terrified. "Go now and fight with your comrades, lad!" The Marcher Baron turns over to yell at some troops on the opposite side of the manse. "Make sure that the Arkanin lads are hunkering down and ready for enemies on their side. They know the drill if they're getting overwhelmed. More the merrier here, and keep a platoon ready to assist them."
Thomas turns about, muckling on to a further section of Venantius men at arms that he's keeping in reserve, bringing his group up to a near platoon. Amusingly, the Chandus and Venantius men fought at the Ruins in the spring; now they fight together. They form up into three columns, two Chandus and one Venantius and march towards the bridge where the combat is taking place. Still, they don't quite commit. Adding troops there right now will only make the situation more chaotic.
And now, the Sokar is on a roll. First man to face him is greeted by a solid helping of spike through the chest, courtesy of Jarret's poleaxe. Not stopping until the force from the weapon has managed to lift the enemy from the ground, he works the weapon free. "Okay, who's next?" he coments, as he attempts to use the axe head this time, attempting to hit someone wit it.
Shadow smiles as he watches Philippe and the smiles flashes the unaturally large Canines. He rushes forward, grabbing Philippe by the throat "You're right." He fairly hisses as he pulls Philippe toward those large, sharp, bloodied teeth. His breath smells like rotten meat and death. "You're a touch too scrawny for my taste." He then squeezes to cause Philippe pain and HURTLES him toward the area where Letholdus, Jarret, and Isabela are. The man lands on the wall near the Orb men.
Letholdus jsut blinks as Philippe comes sailing to slam into the stones near him. "One's balls!" He says in surprise and turns to look as Shadow leaps to cross the gap and lands in front of the Tmeplar, sending the amns prawling with a wicked backhand that SPLITS his helmet and knocks it from his head.
He turns and smiles a bloodied smile at Jarret. "Blood Axe." He states. "I've heard of you. YOU are a warrior." He spreads his arms wide. "How about you try me?" His fingers are tipped with what looks to be black obsidian, glinting in the torch light.
Grabbed by the throat, Philippe is at the mercy of the man with the freakishly large canines. As Shadow speaks, Philippe curls his lips in disgust…managing to mutter two words before he receives a choke in return. "Breath….mint." Then the choke and the toss. Philippe is thrown like a rag doll, flung to the stones besides was seems to be a Galenthian lord…what little Philippe saw in flight. Amazingly enough, the scout did not lose his gladius and dirk. But…he might be regretting his little remarks now.
When the first cries of warning were heard Baroness Quinn (a fifth wheel on the cart which is the Romante manse) reversed direction, her feet finding the shortest path that would take her to the Arkanin manse and the men of her own stationed therein. Neither of the knights accompanying her needed telling twice — or once, as it happens… But on their side of the bridge upon which her approving eyes rested only moments before, nothing of substance has yet occurred to break the tension of their high alert.
"Well, you seem to know me," Jarret remarks as the attacker speaks to him. "But what do I call you, hmmm?" A brief pause, and a growl, as he readies his poleaxe to face this person. "Aside from soon to be dead, that is…" Ready, waiting for a few moments longer before he starts to move in for the attack.
"You can call me Shadow. It's as good a name as any Blood Axe." The man says with a smirk.
The fight below the Tarris-Romante bridge is dragging out. On one side, the mixed Tarris and Romante force, hastily thrown together from a variety of heavy infantry and archer skirmisher units. On the other side, irregular looking fellows with red and black striped leather armour, gladius and daggers. While they're much less armoured and rmed, they move quickly, fighting trying to pick the Galenthian infantry out of their formations and then overwhelming any they manage to. The Galenthians attempt to press forward towards the bridge to get over it, but things aren't moving much right now, the fight being a deadlock.
There is a lull in the action as the the wall climbers have sought cover for the mean time, but they will be back. However, that lull is broken when Air Phillipe comes soaringing in on first class. As he slams into the wallm her eyes go wide once more to swe if he is alright, but her gaze is quickly turned to the suddenly arriving Shadow andhis entrance. As Letholdus os slammed back himself, she moves to his side quickly to make sure he is not dead. Jarret seems to be engaged with the new arrival.
However, she takes no chances and slowly rises to her feet, looking for an opening to unleash another shot for her second flintlock. She steadies her aim and stares with a narrowed eye. A soft breathis taken and she fires. The sound of ther flintlock rings out as she drops it and draws her cutlass after the shot. "Watch the wall men. Watch the wall!"
Shadow slaps the Poleaxe aside and smirks at Jarret. "Is that the best you got Blood Axe?" He snarls. "I thought you were some sort of warrior. Not a child." Then he stumbles forward as a round hits him in the back. He whirls to snarl at Isabela. "Wait your turn girl." He says and licks his lips. "Don't worry. I'll feast on you soon enough." Then he spins, lightning fast, obsidian tipped hands lashing wildly at Jarret.
Letholdus lays there staring at the blood red moon, eyes unfocused. Trying to gain his senses back after having them knocked so quickly out of him.
"As good a name as any for someone skulking about…" Jarret lets out, frowning as the poleaxe gets slapped aside. "Nice little trick there…" A brief grin as he hears the shot, and sees how it hits the Shadow. And while the other might be striking at him, he brings in the polaxe once more, trying to use that spike on it like the last time.
Ardaigh comes singing free of its lambskin and brass sheathe as Myrana charges up the steps to the wall where the fighting is, kicking up her skirts as she runs. "Sir Lethodus!" She comes up, black locks wild about her white face and dark eyes seeking. Instinctively she bats an arrow out of the night air, and presses in to the battle, lightsilver gleaming and slapping bright flashes of white light off from the lantern she still carries.
Apart from a bruise on the shoulder…the dark purple just inching its way into view just at the end of the leather armor…Philippe seems none the worse for wear. It is probably the adrenaline that is keeping him up, though he does stagger somewhat when he finds his feet. A blink of disbelief gives way to a smile, as Philippe realizes he actually still has both of his weapons in hand. And…he wobbles a bit, turning his attention to the dark man that just gave him a toss. "Hey! Tall, dark and gruesome! Is this dance taken or can anyone just cut in?" That…that knock to the wall didn't seem to give the scout any more sense, it seems.
Though…there is a surprised glance towards Myrana. But..then a shrug and Philippe joins in. What the hell…
Isabella watches as Jarret engages the Shadow man still. Her shot rang true, but it did little to stop or slow the figure. Phillipe joins the battle, and then a woman whom she hardly recognizes. The Captain slides over and stands in front of the fallen Letholdus, her cutlass before her. Three of them engaged leaves little room for her to safely do so. However, if this figure want her Liege…he was going to have to elominate Isabella first.
The fight on the ground is finally beginning to pick a side. Throughout the last fifteen or twenty minutes of combat, more and more of the leather clad intruders have spilled over the wall, to the point where they are badly outnumbering the group of Galenthians. For their part, the Galenthians have pulled together into a schiltron, a typical Galenthian defensive tactic where soldiers group into a circle in order to present no weak sides to their enemies. Slowly and surely, the experience, discipline and weapons of the Galenthian soldiers begin to tell. They are dislodging the intruders from the area around the bridge, opening it up to their allies over in the Romante manse. Still, there are many, many enemies and the lines aren't clean.
A cut form an axe slams into his shoulder, and Shadow roars, before he lashes at and slaps Philippe's thrust aside. Then Myrana is there and that Lightsilver cut DEEP. The man who calls hismelf Shadow ROARS and falls to a knee at THAT cut. He snarls and leaps at Myrana. "LIGHTSIVLER!" His claws and fangs bare as he leaps at the Aequoran woman, with intent on solid blood letting murder.
The creature's claws tear into Myrana and the fangs rip through her armored corset like tissue paper as they sink deep into her flesh. He holds the Aequoran woman close and drinks deeply, the color of Myrana's dark hair fading to white in the space of a heart beat. Then tosses the woman aside like a discarded meal.
Letholdus, blinks a few times at that and tries to push himself to his feet but falls to a knee, using his blade to hild himself there and steady. "Kill. It." He states firmly.
Shadow snarls and looks to Jarret. "You're next Galenthian. Northern blood is cold. But You Southrons are warm."
Pausing momentarily as this enemy takes a few hits, Jarret blinks a little at the mention of lightsilver, a quick glance going to the daggers at his belt. But then he sees the Shadow leaping at Myrana, and there's no time for pondering. He steps forward, once more, attempting to impale this one with his weapon. "So, lightsilver's something you're afraid of, hmmm?"
Myrana screams, trying to bring the lightsilver cutlass that Ramius made for her between herself and the howling man, but it's batted aside like it's nothing. As she's grabbed and her head hauled back though it tumbles from her hand with a clang and lies glittering on the escarpment. Soon she's thrown after it, the colour utterly drained from her person and armor torn to shreds, likely dead as a doornail.
The knock to the wall left Philippe more off-balanced than he thought. His thrust was good…but not good enough as the creature (for it is definitely a creature at this point) bats his attempt away like it was nothing. It causes the bard to spin…in time to catch Shadow actually drink from Myrana…then toss her aside like a rag doll.
Deep within the bard, that instinct, that romantic twist within him that drives him to protect the fairer sex, flares up. Hot and fierce. There is no quips given, no banter to be had. Philippe is angry now. And…driven by that anger, he lashes out once more upon the object of his hatred.
Isabella see that Letholdus is at least awake, and her eyes go wide in fear as she sees what happens to Myrana. She quite literall scrambles foward on her hands and knees, grabbing the falling woman's blade; a blade she saw made the creature cry in pain. From her knees she slashes at the beasts leg, not a real strong blow, but perhaps enough to give the others a chance to finish him.
On the grounds of the Tarris manse, the superiority in skill and discipline for the Galenthians finally tells. A junior officer in the centre, a man in the dark red and black plate of House Reine's Dragon's Claws, orders a charge forward. The Galenthian schiltron gives one good spear push and then parts, spilling these fierce eastern men at arms forward. The chaos and blood is palpable and the shock immediately sents the leather clad intruders reeling. A tepid retreat quickly turns to a rout when the rest of the men at arms charge forward and begin to cut through the enemy. It only gets worse when they turn around, their leather armour providing scant prottion against the broaswords of the Galenthians. The other half of the southerners, armed mostly with spear and in lighter armour, stay in place to hold a bridge head.
Feeling invigorated after drinking such pristine and pure blood. Well mostly pure. Shadow confidently quips to Jarret. Which finds him making an "URK" noise as Jarret's axe impales itself on his medsection. The man's amber eyes, now seen by Jarret beneath teh hood go wide in shock. He even looks like he is about to possibly strike at Jarret still when Philippe is suddenly there. The arminf dagger impales a hand reached back to swipe at Jarret and then just RIPS into Shadow's Neck with a spray of a viscous black material. Almost like the blood from a dead person.
Then Isabella comes up wiht Myrana's Lightsilver and slashes at the man's leg's. The blade leaving a steaming trail of evaporated blood in it's passing. The creature falls to his knees and hangs his head panting. "Not. Over. Humans." He wrenches his hand away and winces as he pulls himself off Jarret's axe, covered in teh same viscous black blood and leaps off the wall to a darkened corner of the alley below.
"Not over by half." is heard ans he appears to jsut meld wiht the shadows there and dissapear from sight.
Letholdus hangs his head and pants. "The fuck was that?"
Upon hearing the blowing of the 'advance' horn signal from the other side of the wall, Thomas leads his three columns of infantry from the Romante courtyard and to the top of the bridge in the direction of their compatriots. They're looking to reinforce the defenders and cut down some of those running away. "Free reign, lads, stick together and cut 'em down!" It might appear to some as unchivalrous to kill those retreating, but the recently injured Baron Chandus has no compunction. His sword having been kept clean this entire fight, he's now going to make sure that his men, at least, get one or two a piece. A general scream comes up from them as they charge down the ramp to join the pursuit of the fleeing enemies. Thomas stands a bound back with his Serjeant and Corporal at arms, the signaller and standard bearer, supervising and not really getting stuck in on his own. He quips to Letholdus, "Huh? The enemy is fleeing, your Grace! We've broken them! Join the pursuit!" And he's off down the ramp to follow his men.
And seeing the attacks work out so well, Jarret grins at those eyes widening in shock. "Not so confident now, hmmm?" But then as the creature manages to pull itself free, and leaping off to the alley below, the Sokar growls loudly. "COWARD!" he calls out, leaning on his weapon very briefly before he looks around. "You tell me…" he mutters at Letholdus' words, while still looking to see where the rest of the enemies are.
The enemy is still fleeing tis much is seen as Isabella rises from her knees and picks up her own cutlass. She looks to Phillipe, Jarret and Letholdus before giving a pausing glance to Myrana with a look of sadness. Was she dead? Isabella would not take her blade, no it would be laid beside her before the Captain and her 5 commanded Orbe men would make their way down the ramp to join the assualt on those fleeing. "Nobody gets away. DO you hear me?!"
As the blade tears through hand and neck, the dark ichor splatters upon the leather armor of Philippe. This was no nice and clean cut…this was a rage-filled thrust that was not pretty at all…but highly effective. Then, the hand is just torn free…and the creature just leaps away and flees. There is a moment of confusion from the bard, as the situation sinks in…then an immediate about-face as gladius and dirk are returned to their sheaths, the bard already on the move to tend to Myrana. It seems that he either knows the poor woman or he is just really concerned for her. Probably both.
Letholdus limps over to the edge of the wall and peers down. His gaze still fuzzy around the edges and his eyes unfocused. He pinches the bridge of his nose to trya nd ease some of the pressure he feels in his head. "Get the Lady d'Armaz to a healer, if she's still alive." He blinks a few times. "I'm going to find my way to one myself, I believe i find myself concussed." He opens and closes his mouth and begins to move off. "Baron Chandus." He ndos to the man. "Bloody well done. Get me a casualty list as soon as you can. See if you cna find any of these bastards alive. I want some damned answers."
Then the Duke of Romante heads toward the building where hsi wife is. Albeit very. Very Slowly.
"Onwards, Galenthians! Onwards, for the Rose Queen!" Thomas yells over his shoulder as the southern forces sweep forward, trying to urge more of them into the pursuit. He hears Letholdus's yell and gives him a thumbs up, which is likely not seen, then leans in to his Corporal at Arms, Stewart, who flags the Duke with an 'acknowledged' signal. The intruders attempt to flee up the walls and get away, but ropes and hooks which served well when nobody was paying attention are a great deal slower and less efficient when there are pursuing foes. Some are indeed getting away and fleeing into the night; of these, the reinforcements from the Romante manse, mostly Romante crossbowmen, are shooting every second or third. Others dissapear. Thomas himself turns back in order to cut down some terrified intruder with his sword, getting his first and only blood of the night.
Pausing as he hears the mention of the d'Armaz lady, Jarret looks over towards her. "Sorry I was too late…" he mutters, before he looks to Letholdus, offering him a grin. "See, the good thing about a concussion is the proof that there's something inside there," he offers. A few brief moments of pause, and he starts moving down to join the others chasing down the remaining enemies.
Myrana is cold to the touch when Philippe goes to tend her, and for a moment it seems she's quite dead. But under the white shock of her hair, her eyes are wide, fixed, chest unmoving…
But suddenly she gropes at Phil's sleeve. The gesture is uncertain and weak, but she twists up the fabric in her fingers and takes another breath, as if remembering to do it after quite a shock. "Philippe? God in h-heaven." What the hell just happened?
Those guards had been really insistent about keeping Elaine Cassomir in her chamber she now occupied at the Romante Manse. Not that she is a brave soul, really. The blonde young woman has had her share of confrontations with violence, enough to realize she certainly is not made to brave them. But… there are other sides to Elaine's personality. Compassion. The recently acquired responsibilities of a Viscountess. When the shouts and noises heard from outside indicate that the fighting moves toward an end, there is no holding back. Seriously. The door to the Manse opens, and Elaine appears, blonde hair done in a braid, wearing a plain dress of darker hue, who can tell really on that bloody red of the moon which exact color, a warm scarf slung about her shoulders, in the company of two guards. The expression in her round face earnest. She takes in the scenery in the courtyard then steps forward, a hand coming up to silence any protest coming from the two guards in her company. In her hand she carries a bag with healing utensils, salves, bandages, something she might have grabbed somewhere. As most of her own possessions are far away in Ironhold.
A grim expression masks Philippe's countenance as he checks Myrana. Cold…not moving. He is no healer, but it doesn't look good to him at all.
But then the sudden jump, the hand grasping at the bit of fabric not restrained by the Galenthian leather armor Philippe wears. With a shock, the grimness dissipates into relief, as Philippe's familiar voice whispers down to Myrana. "It seems that you are in need of assistance, milady d'Armaz. May I have permission to carry you to the healers?" Not like he is going to wait for Myrana to give permission anyways. Already, the arms are sliding beneath Myrana's cool form, to hoist her up and off this infernal wall to some proper attention.
Once the pursuit is done and all of the enemy are either away or down, the grounds of the Tarris manse look like a patterned rug. Bodies are absolutely everywhere; the vast majority of them are clad in leather, but around the walls and near the ramp leading to the connecting bridge, there are a thick knot of Galenthians who fell where they fought. More wounded are there too, though most of them are standing due to the good armour and unit cohesion they displayed.
Thomas stands with his slightly bloodied sword in hand, panting, having run to and fro in an effort to redirect groups of Galenthian soldiers to cut off the retreating foe. He spits on the ground, an exhausted look on his face. "Bloody Evil One's testes. That was insanity." Both Serjeant Lewis, the bugler and Corporal Stewart, his standard bearer nod in agreement. They're exhausted, too.
Myrana takes the cutlass loosely as Phil leans over her, one arm folding over it even as the bard scoops her up. Fortunately, its sized for her, and so this doesn't gut Phil in the doing. Mumbling a response, she tries to object and put her feet down before he can lift her, but passes out from shock and bloodloss before she can make much of a fuss.
Grey-blue eyes go up to the bridge that connects the Romante Manse to the Tarris Manse… As shouts seem to come from there mostly, Elaine turns her head to her guards, a quiet comment offered to them, before she and her small retinue approach that bridge to cross it. A rather grim look sported on the blonde lady's features as she casts glances here and there, to the right and the left of the bridge as she crosses it, one arm keeping the scarf about her in place, the other still holding onto her bag. Her eyes widen when she takes in the wounded on the other side, and for a moment it seems as if she were about to faint, as she pauses. But then descends on the other side of the bridge. Trying to assess the situation. Looking for familiar faces. Or just someone in charge to pester with questions.
The bard shakes his head….somehow he knew that Myrana would try to object. With a soft chuckle, he hoists her up and goes off in search of a healer or three. It might take him a bit, as he isn't walking all that fast either. Seems the adrenaline is wearing off.
"Section commanders, report!" Yells Thomas after catching his breath. Echoing his words, Lewis blows a bugle signal and Stewart waves the standard in a complicated manner. The trio wait in the Tarris manse's courtyard, standard now planted in the ground and still. They are surrounded by corpses. One by one, the section commanders' reports flit in; no casualties taken in the pursuit, all okay. Orders come to search for wounded to interrogate and Thomas, with his guards, move back to the ramp where the real fighting was done by the Galenthians. He grimaces at the sight of so many fallen comrades, shaking his head. "May the One have mercy on their souls." Spotting Elaine, he greets her, waving his somewhat bloody sword in the air. "Viscountess!"
Oh great. Corpses! But then again, what did she expect? Elaine lets her gaze drift over the horrible sight of casualties, her eyes narowing now and then, before they hurry to continue in their survey of the current situation. Her gaze brushes the familiar face of the bard as he walks past her, carrying a woman, and any word of greeting seems to die on Elaine's lips, he actually already having walked past her in the moment she manages a slightly croaked "hello". Her eyes close briefly, that faint line of concentration appearing between her brows, before she is suddenly addressed. Elaine looks over, and spotting Thomas, her brows lift at the bloody shine of his sword he waves towards her in greeting. "Baron Thomas…" Lips curl into a faint smile as she moves to approach him, her guards in tow. "By the One! What has happened…?", she asks, the astonishment evident in her tone.
"We were attacked." Thomas states, not realising just how obvious and stupid that sounds. "I don't know who they were but… they rolled over in such great numbers. So many of them." He honestly looks a bit surprised, even a bit dazed. "That's when we called to arms." He leans down and wipes his sword on the tunic of one of the dead, leather armour wearing intruders before sheathing it. "It looks like they killed… all of the sentries. Good God, that was a whole platoon." Now he's really not happy. "Then they fought. The One be good, we held. Look at all of these bastards…" He trails off, scanning the field. There are hundreds upon hundreds of corpses.
Elaine's frown deepens, as she draws the scarf a bit tighter about her shoulders, her gaze following that of Thomas. "Attacked?", she echoes in a half-question. "You mean, someone within the walls of Rikton sent an army against us?" Trying to comprehend, and not really managing to. "Whose workings are these, Baron? Who… is responsible for such, and what… can be the meaning?" Big questions, that obviously won't be easy to answer. The Viscountess lets her gaze sweep to where Thomas is looking, a scenery of piles of dead below the everpresent blood red moon. "What's to become of those dead out there…?", Elaine asks then, "Will someone come and… bury them…?"
"I… I don't know, Excellency." Thomas replies, truly unable to fathom who or what sent an army. He hadn't even thought of that until this moment, assuming that there were always armies ready to fight. He's a soldier and has spent the majority of his life either around or at war. "We uh… well, we'll have to see their survivors."
Meanwhile in the Arkanin manse …
… Nothing happens, and then continues.
Thus it is that, word having reached Baroness Quinn that the enemy are in full retreat, pursued by Galenthians strong and true, she makes a smaller and more strategic retreat of her own, over bridges and up and down ramps, stony-faced and shadowed by her accustomed bodyguards, pausing in the courtyard of the Romante manse to deliver a short and heartening speech to troops still on high alert against the possibility of further intruders (also, to give her damned leg a rest before tackling the next ramp, shh), all the way into the courtyard of the Tarris manse next door.
There she delivers a pithy summary of the next in the series of troubles facing her people tonight. "Shit. These'll take a while to burn."
Whereas, at the Tarris manse, the Cassomir Viscountess is still in conversation with Baron Thomas Chandus. "Hmmm." Not that Elaine would have expected a full and comprehensive answer to her question. Even so, she nods to his remark about survivors. "So there have been captives taken?", she inquires in a rather casual tone, as she tries to block out the horrible sight from really affecting her, looking, but not looking, her grey-blue eyes drifting over the scenery without trying to make out the horrible little details.
At the same time as Elaine asks that question, a man of House Aseno, a vassal of House Daltre, who'd been busy spearing the enemy wounded unthinkingly looks up at the nobles. "Got one here, m'lords, m'ladies!" He declares proudly. Thomas walks over towards the soldier, eyebrows knit.
The Baroness of Ghost Hills picks her way cautiously between corpses, occasionally just going ahead and standing on somebody or another if he happens to be in her way — what, you think she's got all day to make detours for these bastards? — calling out first to Elaine Cassomir in a low, thoughtful tone. "Viscountess, are you certain you ought to be—?" Then the Daltre man sends up that encouraging declaration, and she doesn't quite finish the thought, her eyes blazing with sudden interest. It seems she's fated to make a detour after all: in the direction of that Daltre man and his prisoner, and Baron Thomas Chandus. She's had time enough, on the other side of so many shining white walls, to consider who might be sending such a force against Galenthia within the precincts of Rikton itself. No answer has come.
Elaine trails along, her lips pressed together, even so she cannot stay behind, and so she follows Thomas. "The man is hurt," she states. Assuming perhaps more than knowing, given she hardly spares the man in question a glance. A firm nod has been offered to Gisela Quinn, even if softened with a warm smile. "Oh yes, I am, Baroness." Not to be shooed away that easily, even if there is that telling curve of her belly. A glance is shot Gisela as she joins them, even so, Elaine's grey-blue eyes drift once again towards Thomas, as he seems to be the man currently in charge here.
With the fighting really appearing to be over, the Baron lets go of his shield and pulls his sling taut, sliding it onto his back. He moves to kneel down by the wounded man, removing the dirk he carries from its sheath on his right hip and pointing it at the man. "Where do you come from? WHY did you attack us? Speak now, knave, and you will be fairly treated."
The man in question has greasy, shoulder length brown hair and beady blue eyes and a rather rat like face. His leather jerkin has been pierced at the stomach by what looks like a spear point and a furious smell is coming from it. To those who know, this indicates that his innards have been pierced. He's unlikely to make it. He looks up at the nobles with glassy eyes and an amused grin, saying nothing.
Ah, yes, Baron Chandus would be the scrupulously fair-minded sort. Gisela Quinn, coming to a halt a couple of paces beyond this charming tableau, tilts her head of short-cropped, silvering hair and studies the prisoner with interest. "You know you'll die before ever you feel the sun on your face again. But you'll live a while yet with that wound properly tended. I see our good Viscountess has bandages aplenty, and no doubt the finest of healing ointments. You might have hours in our company," is her frank estimate. She takes one step nearer, her gaze unwavering, a smile beginning to creep across her broad Garaili face. "Time to chop of all manner of small pieces that won't bleed you too much… Fingers. Toes. Ears. Balls. You won't be needing those again," she reassures him kindly, even as she bares her teeth in a wolfish grin. "I was denied the pleasure of facing you and yours in battle — nothing would please me more, tonight, than to hear you sing. One way or another, boy. His way," her head indicates Thomas, "or mine."
Elaine's eyes narrow when she watches the Baron pointing a dirk at the man. Even so, she'll bite any comment back, her gaze instead wandering to the horrid wound in the man's belly. Her brows lift and she turns a touch paler. She inhales. Gaze flitting to Gisela Quinn when she hears the woman's words, then to the bag she still carries in her own hand. But the astonishment she so far displayed will be nothing compared to what follows, when Elaine Cassomir's eyes widen to a point where they look as if they could easily pop out of her face. The threats of chopping, and what is to be chopped so graphically expressed by the Baroness, makes the Viscountess swallow hard. Her eyes shift to the man, perhaps in silent plea he may play along.
"You would threaten me, you southron scum. You think you have won a great victory. Hollow. Enjoy the taste of ash in your mouth." Grinning, the wounded man shifts his jaw in an excessive manner and bites down hard. There is a crunch, and he swallows. Within a half a second his face turns red, then purple. His neck tenses to the point that it looks like it is to explode, and he froths from the mouth, eyes wide. Somehow, he still manages to look pleased as he dies in front of them, as if proud that he denied them himself.
Thomas is angry. Truly angry, something hardly ever seen. He roars, and when it's obvious that the man is killing himself, leans forward and stabs him in face, right under the cheek bone going upwards to his brain. He lunges several more times, once hittng the eye and the last the temple before standing up abruptly and yelling. This outburst of emotion is unusual for the Baron. He walks away.
The Baroness's eyes narrow — and then widen. She stands stock still but for her left hand tightening upon the burnished copper head of her cane, and the deep breaths she draws in, lets out, draws in again…
She almost holds herself together. Almost. But something in the sight of Baron Chandus's vented spleen, his just fury at the loss of his men and the manifest failure of this horrible greasy little prisoner to play by any known rules, tips her over a precipice from which she hasn't quite drawn back. That bleeding, frothing, one-eyed head falls away from the dead man's neck and she stalks off in silence, her sword still dripping in her grasp.
It seems Elaine is in for a treat, of the macabre sort. First she has to watch a man kill himself off before her astonished eyes, not at all succumbing to the rather persuasive suggestion of the Baroness. Then… she observes a man whom she so far has hold in esteem for his kindness, manners and sense, goes berserk with his dirk on that already dying man's face… Only to see it severed, along with the head, by the swift and competent strike of a sword, administered by the Baroness.
"I believe, there's nothing left to do here for me…", Elaine Cassomir mutters, backing away, her eyes wide as they cannot draw themselves away from the man's ruins laid out before her. A sight that will certainly haunt her in her sleep in this continuous neverending night beneath a blood red moon. Her legs give in beneath her, when darkness claims the Viscountess, she leanding at first on her knees and then falling to the side; caught in soothing momentary oblivion, that usually goes along with fainting.