Of personal identification there is precious little, though a quick rifle through the various junk and mundane items in her backpack finally produces a crumpled leather from what looks like a hopeful suitor. It is addressed to a Vivienne Kolstov.
Vivienne Kolstov... He looks up from the crumpled note, hastily putting it into the belt pouch with the gold so the paper wasn't completely destroyed by the rain. Who were you, huh? Why'd you think this was better?
Same reason you've thought about it, Dread. Frig pipes up.
The gunslinger growls to himself, gathering the pouch, the flask and the signal horn and putting them into the backpack and shouldering it. The bulls-eye lantern he clips to his belt in case the spell-slingers are too busy to light the scene. He stands back from the body and even though he'd closed her eyes himself, Eldred can't help but feel the dead woman's look upon him. C'mon, Dread...come join me, stay for a while.
The gunslinger feels a chill creep along his spine.
C'mon, Dread. Pack it in, it was a grand charge, but wouldn't it just be easier? Use my sword, I kept it here in my chest just for you... The voice in his head is soft like velvet and oh so inviting.
Not yet, darlin'. Got lots of marching ahead... So long, Vivienne.
He shakes it off and gets back to business. Bag on his back, longsword pommel sticking over his shoulder for quick access, Eldred nods to the others it's time to go. ""Feels like a ghost town. Don't think the sulfur smell bodes well for us either. Like the cleric says, let's keep on with our business and stick together. I got a feeling things are going to take a turn for the worse any second now." He shrugs his shoulder to call attention to the dead guard's gear. "Assuming we survive the night, I'll get these turned over. Her name was Vivienne Kolstov."
Nathmir notes the items, none of any use to him. Still he puts out his hand towards Eldred.
"I'll take the brandy. It serves well as a disinfectant in a pinch or good fuel to light something on fire even in this rain."
He looks around once more to make sure nothing is coming at them before speaking once more.
"We should hurry and get what we came for."
The sooner he had his armor and shield the sooner he would feel better and start finding answers.
Frig bursts into that chittering Halfling laughter that used to drive Eldred crazy when he was still alive. Oh ho, buddy! Oh, he's got your marching orders down, Dread! Thought you had a stash, huh?
The gunslinger works his jaw, glad for Nathmir's callous disregard for those he didn't deem important...lest the Aasamir think Eldred didn't want to give it over. He pulls down the pack and hands over the flask, then reshoulders it.
Remaining silent at the discovery, thoughts run through Viktor's head at what could have happened. He isn't a particular expert at magicical know-how, but he values such knowledge anyways. Enchantment, Illusion, Conjuration? I've the basics of what those can do individually.. Enchantment in particular.. bah, let the priest think on it, that is his job, not mine.
"I will take the letter, and after we are through here, I will attempt to locate her family and contact them with the news of her passing. Though her death is.. unusual.. she died in service to her country, and should be honored thusly. Her sword should also be returned - I would carry that as well. In the mean time, it could be of use to us." Sheathing his own rapier, he holds his hand out to the gunslinger to see if the man would comply, or Viktor would have to add yet another thing to argue about once this was over with. "The rest of her gear should be used as necessary, as none of it seems to be of particular note. Waste not resources that are given."
"The rest of her gear should be used as necessary, as none of it seems to be of particular note. Waste not resources that are given."
You said it, bunkie. Eldred grinds his teeth at the very sound of the man's voice. Such arrogance and pretention. As though there was no room under his bald skull for a soldier like Eldred to know the way of dealing with the fallen. Looking down at the ground, back still to Viktor, Eldred feels the fires in his belly begin to kindle and grow. It's what he'd nurtured over the years in country. The fire in the belly that kept you alive when by all accounts you should be dead.
He let his fist go, realizing quickly he felt the urge to put it through the man's head. Instead, the gunslinger turns towards the would-be commissar, unslings the weapon and the pack, unclipping the bullseye lantern too, and hands the lot over. "Knock yourself out, Vikki."
I know that tone. Better cool it, Dread. Frig warns.
The gunslinger's lip begins the curl of a snarl as he stops himself short of verbally telling Frig to shut his chow-hole. Instead, his lips continue their journey upwards into the rictus grin of a man whose seen too much, and what he sees before him is not worth time or measure. Eldred knows his friend is right. He pinches the brim of his hat to dip it low and let it go in salute to Viktor, then turns away.
In the back of his memory, nestled in a dark corner, he could feel the ghost of Frig relax and exhale. The gunslinger simply goes back to his search. After a minute passes he starts humming a few bars of a song he learned in Ramgate, then muttering the words as he continues on thru the compound.
"Beyond the reach of darkened rage,
a drop of hell,
a touch of strange,
is all a man needs for his ruin..."
Eyes narrowing at Eldred's tone and attitude, Viktor takes the blade and letter, stuffing the latter in his coat and tying the former to his belt. Insubordinate son of a- He is trying to get me riled up and pull something. I've seen his type before. Angry at authority, likely due to punishment recieved.. or due to his blaming of authority due to one or more of his comrades' deaths. He's too focused inwards, not on what is at stake. Too focused on memories.
Taking a search through the rest of the backpack, Viktor then ties the horn to his belt; The bulls-eye lantern and the mostly-empty backpack, however, he places on a barrel, should anyone need it. As Eldred begins to hum, Viktor immediately recognizes it. Ramgate, eh? I see, then.
"Unless there is anything else anyone wishes to do here, the priest is right. We need to move."
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Yet again he ignores the man, not wasting anymore time in turn. He moves towards his waiting armor, crossbow still at the ready in case anything lurked in ambush. His thought drifted to the source of it all, a good guess was the lower planes. Yet they were not as simply structured as many believed. Coming from the south were their more exotic inhabitants appeared he knew the diversity of it. Having faced Div's himself he knew that as fact. Still even if such was the case how did they appear and in such numbers, it required a great power. Yet such great power would hardly need such a round about methods. Not enough information, more needed to be learned.
In the immediate, Viktor can tell that Eldred had been a fingernail's breadth away from violence. But as he stood before Viktor, something triggered (or rather doused) within the gunslinger. It's like he suddenly realized who he was dealing with and realized it wasn't worth it. As though brushing some dirt off his coat after falling down face first.
In general, Eldred seems to be a man of low patience. That's clear. No tolerance for people of low character and high-sounding words. Judging from the gunslinger's reaction, Viktor fits into the category of "useless meat sack". Accountability and responsibility and deeds are the key to a man like Eldred. Until he knows Viktor is worthy to lead men, he'll never accept him as anything more as a loud mouth who enjoys running down the men he thinks are beneath him. Eldred's been in service of Molthune too long to waste his time.
Bottom line, less words, lead by example.
"Of course, if the city burns while we stand here and debate there will not be much family to return it to.
Been tryin'... the gunslinger almost says, but cinches his hat a bit tighter and eyeballs the stairs leading up to the section of the fortress where his quarters are located. "Can't argue with that, Zeltresh." He tips his hat brim to the gnome and gives him a grin.
Reminds me a bit of you, Frig.
I'm a Halfling, you silly son of a...
Eldred, still grinning points towards the stairs across the way. "What say we get our gear and meet back here quick as possible. I'm over yonder, third floor, east side, 14th room from the corner." The gunslinger nods to Zeltresh and Arzazel. "I know tall dark and divided over there is quartered nearby, Vik...ahem, Viktor's got his gear...but if you're not close to your quarters, I can get you set up out of my platoon's stores." He leaves the invitation open. And mentions at the last. "We get separated for too long, then we meet up at the monument to catch Vincent and the others."
The gunslinger slips off into the darkness and the rain. Can't just stand around not looking in the same direction. The gnome is right. Braganza burning down around our ears and we're measuring... Eldred grinds his teeth at his own pettiness and hits the stairs leading to the eastern quarter of the barracks.
Speaking for the first time since the pavillion, Arzazel says in a gravelly voice, "Zel and me will wait for you here. If you need gear, be quick soldiers."
Seemingly satisfied with Vincent's account of what is transpiring, though no less smug or full of ire, the Commissar nods once slowly in response. Her left heel turns about as if preparing to leave but she hesitates a moment further. Looking once more to the trio gathered atop the stoop, she sneers out an additional command. "Should you encounter Knight-Lord Eodric within Braganza, instruct him to convene with the Prince-Archbanker and Commissar Kathlyn without delay; we gather at the Golden Glory of the Lawgiver. The well-being of Cole and Terandar Ravnagask takes precedent above all else—by will of Imperial Governor Teldas himself." She seems as if hesitating to add further comment, though ultimately settles on her original course, bringing her right heel about to join the left as she disappears in a southerly direction through the storm.
Raston's jaw hangs agape as he stares dumbfounded at the woman's back. The night proves to hold more surprises than the simpleminded man's slow wit can process.
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Hoping to gain understanding of the chaos outside proves frustratingly elusive. Long strides carry Sampson down the spiral stairs and once more into the square outside. Just as the large Hermean clears the small portcullis, the guardsman who had nodded minutes prior steps forward with a halberd raised in a decidedly hostile manner. Fortunately for the guard, it is not to Sampson that he waves the weapon, but the guardsman posted opposite him some forty feet across the square. ""
Meanwhile, across the square, the second guardsman clutches a burlap sack full of sundries tightly to his chest in the folds of his left elbow, while his right hand rests defensively on the haft of an axe hanging at his hip. His stare smacks of defiance as he meets the other guardsman's warning with a yell of his own. "You won't find us so easy a target as Lastwall, Belkzen scum! You shall have the prince!" The second guard turns and begins retreating down a nearby alleyway, while the guardsman closest to Sampson looks prepared to give chase.
A distant thought before the confusing scene before him, Sampson detects a waft of what smells like rotten eggs in the area.
Beneath the brow of the guardsman's chain coif is an unexpected sight; the man's eyes appear to be swimming with a murky gray-and-orange pattern. Of pupil and iris there is no sign.
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Vivienne's crumpled form is left in their wake as all press on towards the impressive sprawl of Terandar's Bulwark. As the soldiers surge forward to collect their belongings, Arzazel and Zeltresh remain behind in the immense courtyard at the foot of the grand stairs leading into the fortress. The gate does not seem to have been forced open, nor do any signs of struggle confront the approaching men.
As the gnome and half-orc mill about the area, the lack of any people or sounds save for those of the raging storm above becomes so unsettling it is palpable. Why had there been no alarms raised? Where were the guards? It is a commonly known fact, especially to Zeltresh, that even in the event of the city falling The Bulwark would be one of the last holdouts against any invaders. For it to be left undefended, unmanned, and open for any who sought entry made no sense. A chorus of neighs and the scuff of hooves lends further testament to the wrongness of the situation—wherever the forces of Braganza had gone, the horses were left. The door to the nearby gatehouse—ajar and occasionally crashing against the structure's wall in the violent gales tearing through the sky—reveals a well lit interior playing host to a small table where it looks as though someone had been enjoying dinner and a game of cards.
Mysterious lack of manpower aside, the interior of the fortress seems rather unremarkable. The empty halls remain well lit by braziers in the stretches of the place that did not warrant less mundane means of lighting. What stands out most is that nearly every single door is left open. It is not until the jaunt through the mess hall that something more concrete presents itself.
There are no bodies to identify, but the concentration of blood and gore behind a ring of tables and chairs in the center of the room tells plainly the tale of a pitched battle that took place here. It would appear that some men tried to erect a makeshift barricade and rally against the as of yet unknown invaders. It would appear that valiant stand failed, however. Pain and anguish hang about the room like a shroud. Nathmir quickly pieces together the implications—the room would need to be cleansed and soon, or the spirits of the angry dead might seek to gain purchase in the world once again. The phenomenon is not unknown to Eldred, though he grasps not the powers at work behind it; on sites of concentrated death at the hand of particularly troublesome circumstances, something far more sinister is sometimes given birth: Dead men getting up hungry for any flesh they can find; vengeful spirits driven only by their own eternal torment to lay waste to the living. It was rare, thankfully, but not unheard of.
Nathmir was greeted by still more questions. The feeling of the room did not help, it would become tainted given time. Sadly he did not even have a magical blessing prepared, it would have to wait until tomorrow when his god renewed his power. He studies the site recasting his detection spell.
He does offer a prayer for Nethys to settle the dead. Hopefully it would calm them long enough for him to complete the work later.
Sampson draws Betrayal and runs after the man retreating down the alley. Either they are both crazy, or that man's a Nirmathi. Both scenarios offer a challenge.
"Sure thing, Miss..." Vincent says, awaiting the ladies name. However, if none is offered, he simply watches a moment as she walks away, also noting how well her armor fits her.
"If we come out of this okay, I will have to see about meeting her on mutual down time. Unless she's got just as big of a superiority complex as Vik."
He then looks to Adurus, seeing him enjoy the woman's departure as well, then nudges him with his elbow and says, "Well, let's go save the city."
He then heads off through the city, attempting to remain quiet and vigilant as he moves towards the rendezvous.
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Commissar Kathlyn. Maybe that's her... Adurus's eyes snap to attention at the end of her command, and he speaks loudly, "Yes, ma'am!" as he puff up his chest a bit and salutes again to the space in front of him. As she turns and walks, he relaxes visibly, looking to the ground and then up toward her dark silhouette which quickly grows less visible in the pouring storm. His thoughts melt into a pleasant, indistinct hum for the few seconds that her swaying hips are visible.
Vincent helps to bring Adurus's focus back. Adurus realizes Vincent saw him staring at the woman, and looks embarrassed, his lips growing thin in the instant before Vincent speaks. After Vincent's comment, Adurus stutters out, "Y-Yeah, I guess we're done here." He looks over to Raston, nodding with a determined look as he says, "Be careful Raston." He then draws his shield and mace, holding them at the ready and trudging as quietly as his armor allows through the rain, close behind Vincent. The rain constantly clinking on the top of his helmet and running down his face keep him alert and watchful as he moves.
Eldred begins searching the room and the dead for weapons and clues. "We may need to consider policing up these weapons. I've seen things like this up north, when they rise again to fight." He tries not to let his mind go back to the vivid memories of having to behead the fallen in the field.
"Can you cleanse this place, Nathmir? Or should we...do something else to prevent them from rising? Maybe tie 'em up?"
Hee hee! Off with their heads! Frig offers with a laugh.
Arzazel continued to be confused about the military. He could not imagine why Terandar's Bulwark would be abandoned. It made no sense to him, but he was a scholar! He would learn and explore like his gnome friend showed him, so he would ask Viktor using the highest form of military address that he knew. "So captain, why would the military abandon Terandar's Bulwark?" After the question, he looked from Viktor to Zeltresh to acknowledge his scholarly question.
Eldred looks about the room, a rolling stone of doom spinning in his gut. ”This ain’t good,” he states the obvious. ”Saw things like this in the north. What it leaves behind was sometimes worse than the original enemy.” But something triggers in his mind. ”Might explain the guard down in the courtyard, though. Maybe she saw how her comrades were dying...thought her own escape would be better than coming back as, well as something unnatural.” Eldred shrugs, figuring he’s talking to himself anyway what with how much Nathmir actually acknowledged others. He wants to ask if the cleric can clean up the bad juju but again, the way he worked Nathmir would have done so already.
”I gotta a strange feeling our gear may not be in our quarters. A hit like this, friendlies or the enemy may have policed up what’s around.” The gunslinger trails off as he watches the Aasimar’s eyes gloss over more than usual. Estimating he’s taking a reading, Eldred steps to the side and tries not to raise a ruckus until the cleric finishes.
Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
Sampson rounds the corner of the alleyway in time to see the guardsman gingerly rest the sack on the edge of a circular fountain, overflowing with the assistance of the rains. The square itself is a four-way intersection with five foot partial walls dominating its corners, each with small alcoves dedicated to various saints of the Abadaran faith lining the outward facing sides. A smug smirk appears on the guardsman's face as he glares down the western street towards Sampson, soon accompanied by a volley of addled bravado: ""
Alarmed cries continue unabated within The Vaultspires, and not far away from where Adurus and Vincent stand from the sound of it: "My reinforcements come! Surrender to the justice of Iomedae, orcish filth, or receive it at the end of Vigil-forged steel." Could it be that the hordes of Belkzen have penetrated this far south undetected? Or worse yet, have the northern forces been so thoroughly eradicated that no warning preceded such a march?
Atop the steps into The Bulwark, silence yet lingers through the still-ajar massive doors. Of Eldred and Nathmir there is yet no sign.
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Eldred's recounting of such occurrences on the war's front are a chilling account of something that happens far more often than any one would like to admit. As he steps around the crude ring of tables, chairs, and stools that were arrayed in a futile last stand of some sort, his eyes find it difficult to tear themselves away from the massive amounts of blood and gore that yet remain confined within the makeshift barricade. His mind races with thoughts of what must have happened here—a brave cadre of troops likely rallying together against overwhelming odds, fighting to the last man for brother, country, and self preservation. Pained cries and the blood choked gurgles as those same brave men and women fell one by one to whatever onslaught that offered no quarter.
Dread, this is... Frig's voice rattles once more in the back of the soldier's mind unbidden.
A handful of men and women, bearing the regalia of Molthune and Braganza; back to back in a dwindling formation of outward facing spears over the shields of their brethren.
WAKE UP, DREAD! Frig's frantic scream snaps Eldred out of his revelry, though a moment too late. The shapes of translucent soldiers he thought imagined now seem very real, especially the wall of spears that attempt to skewer the gunslinger where he stands.
As Nathmir makes known his intention to carry on and worry about the site of slaughter at a later time, the cleric of Nethys cannot help but notice a fascination wash over Eldred's face. His gaze locks onto the remaining stains of what had once been soldiers in the center of the room, and his left hand raises slowly as if preparing to reach over the mostly-broken barricade of tables and chairs. Before Nathmir can voice a concern or protest, what Eldred sees manifests in entirety—translucent-green forms of incorporeal men and women locked in the fight of their life with unseen assailants. A fight that threatens to swallow up Eldred and Nathmir as well. Unfortunately for Nathmir, though he realizes the danger, it rises up in a swell of rage far too quickly for the cleric to react.
A flurry of razor sharp spears flashes out and through Eldred and Nathmir in an instant, though Frig's warning and Nathmir's keen observations allow the pair to avoid the worst of the thrusts. Where the spears impact, an inhuman chill permeates what should be a puncture wound.
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Nathmir would have cursed the unquiet dead if he did not think that would make things worst. Instead he brings up his left arm fist outward which normally held his shield strapped to it, opening his hand a burst of white energy pulses outward from it in all directions. A wave of positive energy to accompany his prayer ending with a word.
"Rest."
Hopefully they would comply and he could bless them come morning.
________________________________________________________________________
"You are clearly insane, but if you don't stand down, I'm afraid I will be forced to kill you," Sampson says, standing in a ready stance with Betrayal held in a guard position.
Vincent's eyes get wide, and he looks to Adurus. "Orcs...here?"
He moves out from his dry spot beneath the arch and heads toward the man's cry, hoping to lend some quick assistance and then return to the rally spot. As he moves, he wills the color of the lights spiraling above him to change from blue to yellow.
Adurus arrives at the arch with Vincent, puffing breaths fogging the air in front of him ever so slightly as he moves closer. The screams of battle are heard, mixed with other screams about orcs. Adurus reflects on that disturbing thought as he hustles along. The large arch's base slowly comes into view for Adurus; the rest of the arch soaring above is barely visible , with the point that the two sides touch invisible to Adurus's limited vision. His quick glances around the base of the arch reveal that he and Vincent are the first ones to arrive. Adurus takes a second to catch his breath.
A second is all Adurus is afforded, before he and Vincent hear a shouted challenge: "My reinforcements come! Surrender to the justice of Iomedae, orcish filth, or receive it at the end of Vigil-forged steel." This confirmed what Adurus thought he heard earlier: there are orcs invading Braganza! This far south? Could these be Belkzen orcs? They'd have to pass all the way through Nirmathas... However, the situation offers Adurus little time to reflect on that. His shield and mace hefted and ready for combat, he takes a deep breath before charging in the direction he heard the voice.
Viktor stands outside in the pouring rain alongside Arzazel and Zeltresh. Despite the two being demi-humans and needing to be kept an eye on, Viktor had yet to have any issues with them - the same cannot be said for his fellow human Eldred, who had gone inside along with the priest of Nethys.
Though keeping quiet, apparently deep in thought at the disturbing events, Viktor snaps up at Arzazel's question. "Commissar, not Captain. And I do not know why they abandoned the Bulwark - doing so disturbs me greatly. No such orders seemed to have been given as far as I am aware - nor have I heard of any intent to do so. As much as it pains me to say it, I am completely in the dark as to what is going on." This admission of his only makes him more frustrated, though he hides it well.
----------------------------------
Viktor's head snaps to the south upon hearing yelling. "Orcs?" His gaze momentarily shifts over Arzazel, linking the half-orc to his full-blooded brethren, and taking into consideration his demi-human status.
"Your kin, perhaps?"
"My kin?" Arzazel asks having no memory of his parents, orc or human. He follows his gnome companion splitting the difference between Zeltresh and Viktor. "Are you supposed to respond to someone requesting reinforcements, Commissar?"
"Normally, yes.. but there was no request for reinforcements. Such reinforcments apparently already come. Nor do we have any known alliance with Lastwall, so something is amiss. We should investigate, though we are not reinforcements - not until we figure out what is going on."
He jerks his head towards the yelling, and begins heading that direction, his recently acquired longsword out, just in case. Should he find whoever caused it's owner to slay herself, he plans on getting vengeance for the soldier.
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Nathmir would have cursed the unquiet dead if he did not think that would make things worst. Instead he brings up his left arm fist outward which normally held his shield strapped to it, opening his hand a burst of white energy pulses outward from it in all directions. A wave of positive energy to accompany his prayer ending with a word.
"Rest."
As the pulse of positive energy encompasses much of the central mess hall, a horrible chorus of wailing agony resonates from the gathering of vengeful spirits lingering within the encirclement of the barricade; a terrible noise that sends chills down the spines of those two unfortunate enough to be party to such a wretched dilemma. Nathmir's force of will seems to triumph over that of the undead, however. The pulse of light causes the translucent figures of soldiers before the pair to evaporate into nothingness once again, leaving only the gore soaked floor that had preceded their presence. Silence takes hold once more in the chamber, save for the crackle of the still-lit fire pit and the patter of rain on the walls and streets outside.
He takes a breath, with any luck it would hold off until the next day. Then he could bless the place and put them to rest once and for all. That was if he did not join them if crossed by whatever took down the entire group of men. Looking over to Eldred, no doubt the man was shaken by the specters as swords and bullets had no effect on them.
"We should keep moving, the sooner we retrieve our items the sooner we can leave."
There was no need for more restless dead. Courage, nerve, and pride was useless in the face of certain things. But faith was a tool for all occasions, it was something he would never do without. Still he did not devalue his shield and armor any less for their part in his protection.
"We should keep moving, the sooner we retrieve our items the sooner we can leave."
Eldred nods, numb to the core. Deep within the pit of his hardened heart he feels the pain of those he'd lost at Ramgate as fresh wounds. Ridge, Barghest, L'oh, Tombs...Frig... There were more but the gunslinger closes off his memories.
Thanks, Frig.
Don't mention it, Dread. Now move your clumsy, human hump.
"Yeah, let's keep moving. Nice bit of work, Nathmir." he offers up. Then turns his attention to the hallway leading out of the mess hall and towards the soldiers' quarters.
...as he heads down the hallway.
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//Saints' Square//
Sampson's warning rings loud enough across the distance between the two men, but the guardsman's madness elicits a response to a conversation that is not taking place: "Men, to arms! Form up on my position! Defend the Prince—for Lastwall!" His axe rings softly as it slides free from the metal ring that secures it to the man's hip to be raised high above his head in a whirling, rallying gesture. It would be an awe inspiring display of patriotism and devotion to one's country, were the man actually from Lastwall. Instead, all that confronts Sampson is the realization that he will likely have to be put down before he does further harm to himself or others. Unfortunately, his antics are not entirely without gravity...
A column of smoke and ember descends onto the Saints' Square in an instant, its approach undetected beyond what obstruction the rain affords it. The dark and orange mass swirls there for but a moment before evaporating, spitting small streams of itself into various corners of the fountain square around the maddened guardsman. Foremost among this self-diminutive display is a particularly sizable stream of smog that impacts a large four-story structure directly ahead and left of where Sampson prepares to stalk down the street. While the smoke itself leaves no trace of its passage through the window of the structure, a violent rumble is soon accompanied by an explosive spray of stone and debris as a large chunk of the wall collapses outwards. Lumbering through the hole is an ogre-like shape wreathed in spirals of blackened smoke and vivid, orange embers. It is difficult to make out the creature's actual features through the whirling mass, though the fiery eyes that drip malevolence are impossible to miss.
Such is the size and ferocity of the creature that Sampson does not even notice the similarly smoke-enveloped, humanoid shapes forming up around the guardsman in the square. Whatever creature this might be surely poses the most challenge of any arrayed against the Hermean—the most deserving of his blade.
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On approach to the Saints' Square within The Vaultspire, Vincent is finally treated to a closer look at the descending pillars of ember and smoke sighted earlier. It impacts the square directly, swirling for but a moment before it dissipates into nothing, though the glint of what looks like fire light dancing along the stone walls that nearly encircle the square announces the presence of something new. The yells from within continue unceasing, still lending credence to the thought that Lastwall is represented here in some capacity. "Men, to arms! Form up on my position! Defend the Prince—for Lastwall!"
It is difficult to see through the rain, even with the shelter provided by the towering structures all around, but there are shapes moving within Saints' Square.
Ascending the stairs to investigate the pall of silence hanging over Terandar's Bulwark, Zeltresh notices an abrupt flash of bright, white light spill out of the second story windows of the keep. If memory serves correctly, Zeltresh approximates the exact room in question to be the mess hall.
Meanwhile, as Arzazel turns to continue his discourse with Viktor, interrupted by the strange screams beyond, the vague shimmer of yellow lights high in the air directly down the street come into view. They appear to be coming closer by the minute. Viktor recognizes the illumination for what it is: a signal as agreed upon, likely conjured by Vincent. Another yell tears down the street much like the one previously, "Men, to arms! Form up on my position! Defend the Prince—for Lastwall!" The cry is no sooner heard than an immense, swirling pillar engulfs the square. Behind the torrents of rain and the walled rise of the Bulwark's gatehouse it is difficult to surmise what has happened, though it certainly appears ominous.
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Humanoid Smoke-Monsters
Ogreish Smoke-Monster
"Lastwall Retainer"
Adurus
Sampson
Viktor
Vincent
Arzazel waits for Zeltresh.
Hearing rallying cries, Adurus raises his pace, puffing air as he moves in an awkward, encumbered jog. The pouring rain hits him on the face, forcing him to squint as he charges. His adrenaline kicks in, and Adurus lets out a loud battle cry. His adolescent voice cracks at its peak, but he doesn't seem to notice as he raises his weapon in preparation for battle and continues his wordless scream.
As the mysterious being made of smoke appears at the edge of Adurus's range of vision, he stops his charge, hesitating as he sizes the creature up. His battle cry dies in his throat as he looks at the creature, wondering what it could be.
Sampson frowns, but he feels his blood quickening. He feels the beginnings of something stirring in his heart. It had been weeks since he'd felt the fire of battle. If appearances were any predictor, this would be a challenging foe. He swings Betrayal around behind him to keep it out of his way, and runs forward towards the giant smoke creature. Guessing that it would be able to reach him before he reaches it, he executes a front flip a couple meters before he reaches the giant, landing expertly on his shoulder and rolling through to pop back up to his a low crouch. He transfers his forward momentum into a two handed horizontal swing with Betrayal, aiming for the monster's knee.
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As the column of smoke comes crashing down onto Saint's Square, Vincent can't help but stop and look on in awe.
"By the Gods..." he mutters just barely above a whisper! watching as it seems to stave off the inclement weather and light up the area.
Seeing flickers of movement that appear to be people, Vincent readies his sword and shield against possible attack. "Could be guards, could be orcs...must be careful to not strike down a friend in this commotion."
Suddenly, Adurus begins sprinting down the path towards the square, his mace held up ready to crush something's skull. Vincent tries to reach out to slow him, but his shield weighing his arm slowed his grasp. "Adurus!" is all he can manage to call out before Adurus is at a full sprint.
Not wanting to let Adurus go in alone, Vincent sprints forward, quickly catching up to the encumbered squire, moving towards one of the humanoid figures. As the thing comes into focus, it is clear that it is not human, orc, or anything that belonged in Braganza. As such, Vincent continues his move forward, and feints his blade low for what appears to be a swipe at the things midsection, but quickly adjust his blade upward through the smokey figures "throat" instead.
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//Saints' Square//
Directing troop movements with his axe head, the Braganzan guardsman continues barking out orders to his fellow knights. "Halavard, on the Prince! Rumerion and Estidan, on me! Megrys and Alhandra, secure an escape lane for the Prince!"
Hazy shapes obeying wordlessly, the humanoid shapes begin rushing about the Square as directed by their commanding officer. For the time being, the creatures seem content to allow the ogre to deal with Sampson's approach, though the approach of heavy footsteps dispersing water from cobblestone can be heard approaching from both the north and south of the square.
A radish tumbles out of the burlap sack still resting on the edge of the fountain, bobbing lazily against the rim in the overflowing rush of water.
Arzazel turns to follow Zeltresh. Then after he catches him, he picks him up and carries him into battle. "We're faster together, my friend."
Rising from the ground in a low crouch, Sampson's strike finds its target unerringly. True though the attack seems, however, the trail of vapors from curling from his blade and the noted lack of any resistance against his blow tells plainly the fact that his strike inflicted no injury. The immense creature's uncompromised stance adds further evidence to this thought, and its smoke-obscured backhand swats at Sampson with a bellow of rage serving as company—an awkward sound more fitting to the roar of a well stoked furnace than any sort of growl or battlecry.
Overextended and bracing against the attack as best he can, Sampson is surprised to note that the creature's blow, though forceful, packs a deceptively light punch. Were the hulking mass of roiling smoke and embers actually something so brutish as an ogre, the Hermean would likely be a crumpled heap against the far wall. Sampson does note, however, that as the creature's forehand connects with his left abdomen, a burst of dark vapors kicks up in a cloud around him. For the briefest of moments, his senses wane into a thick malaise before his own considerable sense of focus reins in the muddling attack.
Vincent's blow lands true; were it a living creature of blood and muscle it would likely be draining empty on the street where the Field-Squire struck the well placed blow. Instead, his blade parts through a haze of smog and fiery-orange motes and impacts with something. His attack produces a high pitched shriek from the creature, though the unsettling cry is thankfully short lived as it evaporates into thin air. Nearby, an identical abomination opens its facsimile of a mouth—a tunnel of smoke hinting at the presence of a fiery core—and emits a screech akin to the whine of a tea kettle.
Whatever creatures walk the streets this night are none that Adurus has ever heard of before. As Vincent surges past the younger squire, the vicious strike he lands on what is no doubt a mock anatomy confirms an initial suspicion: these beings share striking similarities to elementals borne from the Plane of Fire. And yet, there are profound differences—a certain malignance and an impossibly thick stink of sulfur.
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Sampson frowns, but he feels his blood quickening. He feels the beginnings of something stirring in his heart. It had been weeks since he'd felt the fire of battle. If appearances were any predictor, this would be a challenging foe. He swings Betrayal around behind him to keep it out of his way, and runs forward towards the giant smoke creature. Guessing that it would be able to reach him before he reaches it, he executes a front flip a couple meters before he reaches the giant, landing expertly on his shoulder and rolling through to pop back up to his a low crouch. He transfers his forward momentum into a two handed horizontal swing with Betrayal, aiming for the monster's knee.
Directing troop movements with his axe head, the Braganzan guardsman continues barking out orders to his fellow knights. "Halavard, on the Prince! Rumerion and Estidan, on me! Megrys and Alhandra, secure an escape lane for the Prince!"
Hazy shapes obeying wordlessly, the humanoid shapes begin rushing about the Square as directed by their commanding officer. For the time being, the creatures seem content to allow the ogre to deal with Sampson's approach, though the approach of heavy footsteps dispersing water from cobblestone can be heard approaching from both the north and south of the square.
A radish tumbles out of the burlap sack still resting on the edge of the fountain, bobbing lazily against the rim in the overflowing rush of water.
Hearing rallying cries, Adurus raises his pace, puffing air as he moves in an awkward, encumbered jog. The pouring rain hits him on the face, forcing him to squint as he charges. His adrenaline kicks in, and Adurus lets out a loud battle cry. His adolescent voice cracks at its peak, but he doesn't seem to notice as he raises his weapon in preparation for battle and continues his wordless scream.
As the mysterious being made of smoke appears at the edge of Adurus's range of vision, he stops his charge, hesitating as he sizes the creature up. His battle cry dies in his throat as he looks at the creature, wondering what it could be.
As the column of smoke comes crashing down onto Saint's Square, Vincent can't help but stop and look on in awe.
"By the Gods..." he mutters just barely above a whisper! watching as it seems to stave off the inclement weather and light up the area.
Seeing flickers of movement that appear to be people, Vincent readies his sword and shield against possible attack. "Could be guards, could be orcs...must be careful to not strike down a friend in this commotion."
Suddenly, Adurus begins sprinting down the path towards the square, his mace held up ready to crush something's skull. Vincent tries to reach out to slow him, but his shield weighing his arm slowed his grasp. "Adurus!" is all he can manage to call out before Adurus is at a full sprint.
Not wanting to let Adurus go in alone, Vincent sprints forward, quickly catching up to the encumbered squire, moving towards one of the humanoid figures. As the thing comes into focus, it is clear that it is not human, orc, or anything that belonged in Braganza. As such, Vincent continues his move forward, and feints his blade low for what appears to be a swipe at the things midsection, but quickly adjust his blade upward through the smokey figures "throat" instead.
Vincent's blow lands true; were it a living creature of blood and muscle it would likely be draining empty on the street where the Field-Squire struck the well placed blow. Instead, his blade parts through a haze of smog and fiery-orange motes and impacts with something. His attack produces a high pitched shriek from the creature, though the unsettling cry is thankfully short lived as it evaporates into thin air. Nearby, an identical abomination opens its facsimile of a mouth—a tunnel of smoke hinting at the presence of a fiery core—and emits a screech akin to the whine of a tea kettle.
Whatever creatures walk the streets this night are none that Adurus has ever heard of before. As Vincent surges past the younger squire, the vicious strike he lands on what is no doubt a mock anatomy confirms an initial suspicion: these beings share striking similarities to elementals borne from the Plane of Fire. And yet, there are profound differences—a certain malignance and an impossibly thick stink of sulfur.
Rising from the ground in a low crouch, Sampson's strike finds its target unerringly. True though the attack seems, however, the trail of vapors from curling from his blade and the noted lack of any resistance against his blow tells plainly the fact that his strike inflicted no injury. The immense creature's uncompromised stance adds further evidence to this thought, and its smoke-obscured backhand swats at Sampson with a bellow of rage serving as company—an awkward sound more fitting to the roar of a well stoked furnace than any sort of growl or battlecry.
Overextended and bracing against the attack as best he can, Sampson is surprised to note that the creature's blow, though forceful, packs a deceptively light punch. Were the hulking mass of roiling smoke and embers actually something so brutish as an ogre, the Hermean would likely be a crumpled heap against the far wall. Sampson does note, however, that as the creature's forehand connects with his left abdomen, a burst of dark vapors kicks up in a cloud around him. For the briefest of moments, his senses wane into a thick malaise before his own considerable sense of focus reins in the muddling attack.
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//Saints' Square//
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The lumbering frame of Sampson's opponent wheels about in preparation to visit another overhanded strike against the him, the violent glare of its glowing eyes speaking plainly its intent. Though his first strike rained ineffective, there was likely more to this foe than its appearance let on. By all accounts, it should be at least limping, but the trail of smoke from his blade's horizontal strike simply trailed briefly before recoiling back to its leg.
Meanwhile, the guardsman barking out orders surveys the "battleground" as a proud general; his trust in his troops absolute as they rally around him to defend the sack of radishes scant feet behind the madman.
Adurus thinks back to his long lessons inside the Golden Glory; images from tomes he studied resurface, and passages detailing the anatomy of certain being from outer planes come to mind. His thoughts race to place a name to the creatures in front of him. Failing to find a name in the space of a few seconds, Adurus fills in a few blanks with guesses and loudly declares to Vincent, "They're some kind of corrupted fire elementals!" Realizing his fiery powers will likely do him no good in this encounter, Adurus tightens his clutch on his mace and prepares to advance to melee. He gulps nervously as he watches his supernatural opponents.