| A Sunday Stroll |
| Summary: | After Myrana expends a considerable amount of Magical energy and creates a Lightning Storm, the White Hallers in the area decide the person who can do that should not live and send men to end the problem. |
| Date: | 7/22/1874 |
| Related: | Vengence |
| NPCs: | None, other than some White Hall Raiders |
| Players: |
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| Some Coastal Road in Southern Alasce |
| See above |
| 7/22/1874 |
A whirlwind of ash swirled up from the burning ground atop the Deadside Cliffs and the hammerfalls of bolt after bolt was cacophony, but over it rang that inescapable name. That FUCKING NAME.
"TELEKO"
All fear evaporated. The name she hasn't dare speak since the battle at Mathis ripped through her like a bullet and lightning screamed down. Granite chips pelted upward as the cliff she stood on shook and sheafs of stone broke away toward the surf below. The world vanished again in searing brilliance, and the letter in her hands evaporated into a cloud of fluttering moth-soft ash. The Arcadian palfrey underneath her bugled and reared.
"HERE I AM, CORPSE!"
That rippling sensation turned to a searing whitehot agony; the palfrey boiled into carbon tar to reveal a white grave of ribs like scimitars. Myrana fell into it as another bolt splashed down around her. In the very next instant the bones themselves blew upwards into more ash with the remains of those scrub and brush growing atop the Deadside Cliffs. There was no air, and she thought for a moment that she would faint dead away.
But she couldn't. And what was more, she wouldn't.
% r The pain vanished before an incredible, euphoric wave. Myrana D'Armaz was distantly surprised to find her hands whole and unburnt, glowing so bright she could hardly look at them atop the pitch black cliffside. Hadn't her eyes melted down her face? No, here they were, and her cheeks and throat and shoulders. She pushed off of the rock and stood looking down at the sea.
Ships cut through those waves. Whitehaller ships. She had avoided them for days, riding at night and when she thought the Pilgrimage Road would hide her from scouts unfamiliar with the Aequoran wilderness. Afraid, but unwilling to abandon the coastline. If Ramius was not in Gendiel, and he had not met them on the Road thus far, he must have been held up. She'd find him, and tell him about Teleko's survival. And they'd go together to the throne, to the crown.
And if Ramius couldn't find her NOW, she would be very, very surprised.
Pain vanished, subsumed by that wild joy that always came with casting. Apprehension (and caution) followed it out.
Myrana hook the hair back from her face, hearing the hissing-hot lightsilver of her bell pendant give a vibrating chime and the hot kiss of her earrings tap against her cheeks, the cherry burn of the bracelets layering her wrists. Exhilerating!
Myra kicked away a crunching fragment of horse-skull as she strode out of that blowing ashen pile to walk to the cliff's edge. Another bolt clashed around her, but this time, she was in control, and she let it splash around her like cool water to run away harmlessly. She lifted her arms, and gathered the black clouds more tightly around her, sighing with relief. It was like stepping into cool water.
"Come find me, Ramius," she told the storm clustered around her like a growing star, unfurling and blossoming and eating everything. "Ahaha!"
And taking one of those starveling whips of light, she turned her attentions finally on the ships below.
- A WEEK LATER -
"Walking is horrible what were you thinking?"
Ouros, wise enough to get a mile away when her mistress smells pissed off, chuffs derisively.
"No, I won't try to ride you again," Myra grumbles. "…Big baby."
So she's been going for days and days, in a kirtle stolen from the remains of a fishing village off of a cut laundry-line, with Ardaigh belted over it and a pair of sandals on her poor, sore feet.
Ramius has been delayed. The invasion of White Hall was sudden though not entirely unexpected, and the coastal pilgrimages are disconcertingly poorly defended in comparison to the forces levelled against them. Barbarians are, as ever, unusually resilient and unwilling to relinquish their hold on life. The fight has been bloody thus far. Good men have given their lives. But he has had good reason to press on regardless.
After all, he can't exactly leave his wife figuratively adrift. Not now, not with so many unusually unkillable bastards out on a long-term booty raid.
The Duke has been involved in a number of skirmishes in the past few days. Most of them have ended in the same way: with an angry mountain man driving a burning sword through the heart of one or more angry ocean men. Ramius is fortunate that he has so much anger to work out and a particularly keen grudge against the ocean in general. It's served him well, even if he has payed a price himself. A few arrow wounds and axe-gashes have scored fresh scars, but stitching, the application of an unhealthy amount of high-grade alcohol and a few healing concoctions have seen him by and large on the mend.
Really, it's maybe ill advised to break from his troops on their way to regroup further inland, but all things considered, he has little choice but to go on his own. Unusual storms mean either the arrival of yet more sea devils, or the action of a… particular individual close to his heart.
Myrana might hear him coming before she sees him coming— the thunder of those hooves is unmistakable. An enormous, dark shadow rises on the horizon, making rapid speed down the coastal highway. The beast carries on its back a man in black armor and a distinctive horned helm. That can only be one man.
Or… someone who is /very/ good at cosplay.
The storm was more than just a beacon to Ramius al'Arran. It was a beacon to the White Hallers on land performing raids and scouting. Clear skies and sudden bolts of lighting? Ships struck and exploded in their destructive wake? That was a target to be taken out, and the Jarl in the region dispatched men to find this Sorceror and deal with them.
While Ramius broke away form his small number of troops, the White Hallers were also approaching the epicenter of the thunderous wake. Upon horses taken form Alasce they ride, ten in number, each bearing their own unique weapons and armor as there is very little uniformity in White Hall Raiders. Save that each bears the same shield with the same design upon them. That of the Dragon Shield of Reist Ragnesson.
When they crest the hill they spot Ramius rising toward Myrana. The lead man calls out in Njor, "Split up and take them!" He surges forward with who men. Three more split left to try and circle around and capture Myrana and her Elementi, while four men ride straight for Ramius.
Ouros is very likely the reason that Myrana is alive. The sable Elementi senses the rumble of approaching horses in the road and begins to push Myrana towards cover, as the good hound has whenever such patrols have come looking for her along the coast. They know how fast a person may go by foot or horse, and have laid out a net. Thus far, she's avoided them.
But seeing Ramius silhouetted on the rise she hesitates, gasping. "Ramius!"
Ouros whines, but too late.
The little Armaz hisses and draws her sword, messy white braid whipping as she whirls around to face the formost rider as he circles around. More follow him.
"Is that wise, Raider?" She calls out to the helmed rider, snappingg Ardaigh in a fast sharp arc of lightsilver before letting its opal pommel slap into the heel of her hand. It took them a few days. Thank goodness.
"Their horses," she tells the hound, and finds a tree to put her back to before they can fully circle her on the gravel.
Ramius is not surprised that there are EVEN MORE White Hallers waiting for him. How does one island put out so many fighters? How long have they been accumulating numbers and biding time for this raid? It doesn't matter in the end. All that matters is that this has just turned into a fight of survival, and that he needs to get to Myrana as soon as he's able.
Ramius bellows a thunderous war cry as he turns his massive war horse to meet his foes' charge. A great black blade explodes from its sheath, swinging through the air like a steel whirlwind to smash straight through the barbarians attempting to keep him from his wife.
It's time to see if these warriors have as much mettle as they claim. And if not… Well, maybe that's why they travel in so many numbers.
The Rader flings himself form his horse and comes at Myrana, beating aside her lightsilver blade with his round shield and then swinging wiht the bearded axe. He laughs as he looks over his shoulder to the other two, just as the three others circle and wait in reserves to help whomever needs it. "These Easter Women are just as weak as we were told! But they sure do have pretty blades! She must be noble. Ransom, or slave wife! Either is fine by me!"
This all spoken in Njor, and the two with him laugh as they sit upon their horses, and begin to climb down. In broken common the raider looks to Myrana. "Put the Lightsilver sticker down miss. You don't need ot be actually hurt … "
Over at Ramius the four men lead with their shields on their horses and one of them cries out in Njor, "BLACK STEEL!" It seams the White Hallers know of Sidhe Steel, as they react swiftly. Instead of blocking wiht their shields which owuld merely be sliced, they dodge, and dance their horses expertly for men who are supposedly bred on the oceans, and swing. Swords and Axes colide with the Sidhe steel, getting pitted deeply, but no les dangerous, before one catches a lucky break and finds a small opening on the Aequoran Knight. These men do not laugh or joke. They are all business in trying to disarm, unhorse and or kill Ramius.
Myrana scrambles back as the much taller Whitehaller overtakes her almost at once. One moment he's dismounting, then three fucking steps happen and how-do-you-do.
"Curse-it!" she gasps as Ardaigh is batted away and only just steps back in time. A too-big sandal is left between them like a magic trick as she backs- but it finds its way by pure god-given luck under the foot of her attacker, and he stumbles in his first swing. Just a little.
"Eat me!" She spits, and using that moment of imbalance hurls herself into his guard before his shield can come back in, and thrusts Ardaigh for his elbow like a streaming silver blur.
There's a sense of professionalism about these warriors— or at least, a fair amount of discipline. The last time Ramius ran into White Hallers, they were…
Nowhere near this.
They were kind of just slavering monsters with a shared deathwish and far too much gung-ho for their own good.
An axe rakes up and over the flat of Ramius' great blade, kicking a spray of sparks into the air. The barbarian blade carries further, tearing a thin gash across the Arrani's cheek.
They're trying to avoid his blade. Wise.
Their horses do not know so well.
"GET OUT OF MY WAY IF YOU WANT TO LIVE," Ramius bellows, swinging his great blade not into the Whitehallers' darting defenses, but rather into the flanks or throats of their steeds. Saving as many as possible is ideal, but when faced with killing horses or increasing the risk to he and his wife's wellbeing, well!
Myrana's blade dances in, but the White Haller simply side steps and brings his beared axe down to knock the blade toward the ground. He then spins in place and backhands Myrana with his shield. He takes a single step back. "Last chance Easter Girl. Lay down your pretty trinket or I will be forced to kill you." The common is broken with the White Hall accent but easy enough to understand.
Horses scream as sidhe steel passes easily through first the front legs throwing a man to the ground only to be crushed by the hrose, then through a the chest cavity of a white haller. The slice clean, but not all the way through the man. He has time to let out a gasp before he falls over with blood leaking out from the cut. His horse running off. The third man finds that sidhe steel siddubely in him as it passes through the horse's neck, through his left arm, and out his back. He falls, neatly bivesected in a spray of blood and gore.
The Last man growls. "Damnit." in Njor. "Help me with this tin can!" The other three come riding for them, leaving the three facing Myrana.
Ourus suddenly springs form the trees on the two watching the fight. The large Elementi a sudden blur of barking and growling fangs. He removes one of the men form his Horse to the ground and with a strangled scream rips the man's head out. The second man's horse rears and tries to stomp Ourus, who deftly dodges, and then begins to doge as the White Haller slashes with a sword.
The man who is left facing Ramius slashes with his blade and then dances back, barely avoiding the one that killed his other three companions so quickly. He grits his teeth as the blade rings off armor again. It's only a matter of time before he finds the weakness there.
Ramius speaks many barbarian tongues. Unfortunately, the coarse language of White Hall is something foreign even to his trained ears. What little he understands might come from the few similarities that remain between Icenailan and the words of the White Hallers. And even then…
"Who is a sardine!?" Ramius yells as sparks flicker off from his jet black armor. The thunder of hooves foretells the arrival of more reinforcements— and some part of him thinks well of it. The more he kills here, the fewer men raiding the countryside. The Arrani yells as he presses his steed into another charge, bringing the black blade of his ancestors to bear in an attempt to bisect both horse and rider in one blow…!
Years and years ago, the great free city of Four Corners was crushed by these men from Whitehall, and it was only just barely that they took it back from them in the end. Myrana organized generals from two nations under the orders of now-dead Chancellor Tyres, who took all the credit onto himself for her plans. HER PLANS.
Myrana is scared. Though she's fast, it's all she can do to keep from being overwhelmed by this one, huge Raider. It's terrifying. If she doesn't keep the sun behind her, the raider eclipses it and she is forced to fight in his shadow. As she is when he swats Ardaigh down again and looks down at her.
It is hard, VERY HARD, not to think of the Berserkers, and the helplessness when they appeared. And they were normal, until the hands of their terrible gods lay on their shoulders and made them change. Myrana trembles, heart beating faster. She kicks off the other sandal, angry.
"Stay away from me," she warns. "Stay back!"
Putting her hand out and backing away still with dry leaves crushing under her bare tender feet and rustling around her skirts, she fights the urge to drop the sword.
Till, she doesn't.
Ardaigh drops with a sharp crash of leaves to the ground by her feet.
The clouds over the sea just to the west of the pilgrimage road stir overhead. But she doesn't back from the sword, keeping it right at the edge of her skirts, where if she fell to her knees it would be underhand.
Static tightens her skin. If the Raider takes another step forward, perhaps thinking she's surrendered, there's only one thing that is about to happen.
<Pose Tracker> Snoopy has posed. They're speaking Imperial Common.
Ramius and the Raider swing at each other, circling with their horses to slash and stab. Ramius's Greatsword meeting the Raider's Bastard. Sparks fly with each strike, but bits of the Raider's blade are shaved off with each strike. It does nto however stop it form being a deadly weapon. He smiles at Rmaius as his three companiosn join the fight. Using the same tactics as before of striking and feinting in cooperation with each other.
The Raider looks over his shoulder as Ourus fights his companion, bloody jaws showing what happene dto the man writhing on the ground with blood between his fingers. The man whips his head back. "Little Vitch." He snarls in common and raises his axe to swing it at her body.
Lightning screams out of Myrana's outflung hands like a hungry beast, consuming the Raider in what can only be described as a wave of heat from this close. The lightning bolt doesn't stop at him or his bearded axe or the armored helm he wears, but courses on past him as if he didn't even exist. Which, he quickly does not. All that force sucks the dry leaves from the ground around Myrana and hurls it after it in a wild maelstrom of plasmic splatter and quicksilver embers. What's left of the man's bones hit the ground behind him like tiny burning meteors and burn holes into the ground, grass and earth and stone glassing into one witchfork scar.
Myrana fumbles for Ardaigh and the lightsilver HISSES under her hand, but does not warp or melt, but glows with the energy channeling into it till the blackwork on its flat is as dark as pitch and the naked lightsilver a neon glow that sets the opal there to gleam octarine and pulsing.
She pants, controlling her fear again. And remembers: "Ramius!" She turns around to see where he must be, having been much too frightened and pressed to keep track of him beyond the sound of men fighting in that direction. And emboldened, she runs that way.
As Myrana's lightnign strams form her Ourus leaps at the surprised White Haller who is suddenly illuminated by the light from that blast. The Elementi impacts the White Haller in the chest with all four paws and Pushes off. Flipping in the air to land in a growling crouch. The White Haller flies into Myrana's elemental blast of death where he screams and then hits the ground, his flesh a charred smoking ruin.
The Elementi looks to Myrana and paws the ground twie before giving her a wink. Then he rolls his massive Elementi shoulders and hrumphs. As if to say "Whatever. I'm still way more bad ass than you." Then begins to saunter casually to Ramius. Because. MAYBE that guy's okay.
Ramius is busy, Myrana. He is busy trying to kill FOUR MEN AT ONCE. This is about as difficult of a task as one might imagine it could be. Being outnumbered is a familiar sensation when you lived most of your life border-to-border to a burgeoning horde of supernaturally puissant warrior races to the north. This is far too familiar for his tastes; where did these people learn to ride? The Horse Clan?
It doesn't matter. A crash of thunder blasts across the rolling seaside, sending a comfortable rumble through the Arrani's chest. He may be outnumbered, the White Hallers might be growing ever more successful in probing his armor for weaknesses, but he has an ace up his sleeve.
It's just not quite the right time to deploy it, is all.
Also, he's fairly certain that doing so would only draw more trouble their way at this point.
And so, Ramius sticks to a much more tried and true tactic.
He's going to stick the pointy end of his sharp stick into the men and make them fall down.
The man who found the pointy end gurgles as the blade enters and leaves his body. He falls over as blood squirts from the chest wound. He kicks and thrashes on the ground as he tries to hold the blood in. The other three don't pause and move in, attempting to slash and cut or break through Ramius's armor.
Ourus just shrugs an Elementi shoulder. As if to silently say, "Whatever. I do what I want."
The White Haller leader growls lowly. "Fall back." He says in Njor. "We need to tell the Ragnesson!" The other's nod, and then they turn their mounts and thunder away.
Myrana's lightning snarls around her. The Raiders surrounding Ramius wheel and ride away, too far!
"No!" Myrana knows she can't let them ride away, not now! Her heart leaps up into her throat and she reaches out without thinking.
A bolt leaps toward the retreating raiders. It arcs over their heads and cuts the ground before their horses into a pealing ruin. One man is caught in it and his head ceases to exist on his shoulders while his body spasms and falls from his screaming horse. The other two leap the broken ground and continue down the road.
Blades clash, steel flashes, and bodies press against one another in that age-old fight for survival! And then the three of the raiders engaged with Ramius decide to cut and run. Ramius snarls as he watches them begin to beat a hasty retreat—
And then he pulls a bow from his shoulders and smoothly launches a single missile into one of the men's throats from behind. He slumps into his saddle, and then out of it. A moment later, a flash of lightning obliterates a second rider. Ramius just nods.
And then…!
"Myrana!" Ramius yells, issuing his mighty steed over to the much, much smaller girl. "Come on, up you go. We need to get out of here before they send more."
Myrana holds Ardaigh away from her body and lifts her right hand as Ramius thunders by; when Ramius' hand catches her arm she grabs high up on his steel gauntlet and lets him swing her up onto the saddle behind him, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Hhah!" She breathes in relief. "Ah! I hate that!" But she grabs the big Arrani by the middle and shoves Ardaigh into its sheath, getting comfortable as fast as she can.
"I'm glad to see you!" She says from behind him, going 'ow!' as she fails at first to put her butt just-so in the saddleback. Fortunately for them both, Baron Vargas d'Arran was huge, so there's just enough space for her to get in there.
"I melted my horse," she tells him as she gets comfy at full damn speed. "And all my things."
<Pose Tracker> Myrana has posed. They're speaking Common.
"The monster is back. Imogen wrote to me, told me he was in Hellsmouth the night after the wedding." She tightens her grip around his middle and shakes the bangs from her face. "If I hadn't left with Countess D'Juliano I would have been there." By the growl in her smoky little voice, it's clear she wishes she HAD been. But that's insane.
Are you sure there's enough space Myrana? Enough space for Myrana's butt? It is fairly sizable, you know.
"I was worried. I wanted to come as soon as I could, but with the raids, I haven't been able to get away from the front." And there have been so very many dead bodies. You wouldn't believe. Just, corpses all over the place. How does White Hall still have people!? "I'm glad you're alright. It was… Stressful."
Also stressful: Learning that Teleko is back.
Not that he ever thought Teleko was /gone./ That whole thing ended far too indecisively for that. There's something a little more important in there, though.
"You… melted your horse?" Ramius says, incredulous. "Con…gratulations? I don't think I've ever melted a horse. I'm not sure it's wise for me to try."
Especially considering who they're riding.
If god didn't want rich girls to have padded behinds, he shouldn't have invented the chef.
"I'm sorry for worrying you," she says to Ramius, cheeks flushing. "I just grabbed the letter in New Kashmir and rode north. I thought he was dead; he snapped Ardaigh off in his chest. I thought it would get infect… infected. Oh that's lame," she mumbles, dispirited. "Maybe he's 6,000 years old for a good reason."
Hugging Ramius' back, she shakes her head, seeing Ouros run like an umber blur through the trees alongside them. A passing crawl of static fizzles out over the pair of them and dissapates. She's exhausted, and she's been eating whatever Ouros has caught for them. But for all that she's been on foot and evading capture or discovery for a week now, she's suspiciously clean. Maybe not surprisingly, but still suspiciously.
"If you hear any stories about drownings," she adds reluctantly, like someone confessing. "You can ignore them."
But she brightens, and puts a kiss on his cheek as she unlatches one arm to reach into a saddlebag and draw out a piece of dried fruit. "You didn't have to worry. I am very frightening." And she's back to regular confidence levels. It's hard not to be when you're koala'd onto a murdermachine.
It's okay, Ramius is a fan of padded behinds. As the bards sing, he approves of posh posteriors and his honesty is unquestionable. His comrades in arms cannot refute this fact.
"I am really not sure a vampire can die from… Infection." Ramius makes a thoughtful noise. "I mean, they're basically shriveled, living corpses aren't they? Except with less rot than zombies. You can't kill something that's already dead with a sickness of the living. You'd need to, like, find some kind of vampire disease."
Do those exist?
Maybe??
That'd be nice.
The thunder of galloping hooves fills the forest as Bucephalus charges away from the roaring shores and toward the relative safety of the Aequoran lines. Ramius seems… Fatigued, but not nearly as much as Myrana must be. After all, he hasn't been subsisting entirely on squirrels and hares.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Ramius huffs. "If they didn't want to drown, they should never have been out on one of those floating deathtraps."
Clearly, Ramius has strong feelings about boats in general.
Cut to a dripping Myrana holding a man down in a glassy green river, huge whitehaller legs thrashing right until she caves his skull in with a rock. A peasant dress hangs from a nearby branch.
Cut back to present.
"Right!" Myrana says around the apple rings. "Exffactly my thoughtf, hufband!"