"This is takin too long, we came all this way, I just wanna get to the damn party people."
:)
- - - -
Markham Dagwood stares at the manacles on the floor quietly for a moment. He then looks up at his father, who is sipping away at his medicinal brew and seems to somehow be unaware of what is happening.
"You 'detachment' is outside, eh?" Markham says, drumming his fingertips against one another in thought. "Then you made two mistakes. The first is that you left your 'detachment' outside with my Dahaka; the second is that you made this threat while my Pa was nearby." He looks at Abner and shouts: "Pa!" When the old man looks up, still clearly unaware of the the situation, Markham says: "Why don't you go finish your brew in bed? I need a bit of privacy."
Abner smiles and rises from his seat, then begins to head into one of the rear bedrooms.
"Now, you'll wanna leave my ol' man out of this," Markham says, a seething anger in his voice. "He ain't done nobody no wrong. Not all of those touched by Beliandral are inspired to do her work. He jus' paints, that's all. He won't understand what's goin' on, an' his old heart might not be able to take it. So jus' let the ol' man sleep, or I'll have Dahaka tear every one'a you apart." His eyes narrow, and he repeats: "Or I'll have Dahaka tear every one'a you apart."
- - - -
- - - -
There is only a split-second before the enormous weight of the giant boar smashes against the front of the cabin, shaking the entire house. Abner Dagwood is thrown off-balance and tumbles through the door into the bedroom, and Markham Dagwood leaps to his feet, kicking the manacles aside. The fiendish head of Dahaka, the dire boar, is thrust snout-deep in through the doorway, which bulges at the sides as the creature tries to come inside. Even Markham seems surprised at what the beast has done. Its tusks, each as long as a man's body, protrude far enough into the chamber to nearly reach Warshawski. The beast withdraws for only a second before throwing its weight at the doorway again!
- - - -
Round One - Enemy Phase
Dahaka rears back and slams against the entrance again, trying its hardest to get into the cabin and tear into someone.
The massive boar strains against the entrance, but is unable to break through.
Markham Dagwood holds out one hand and shouts some hideous phrase in a tongue that could only be Aklo; in an instant, a wicked-looking scythe with a collapseable hilt materializes into his hands, and he sneers as he clicks the length of its shaft into place. He then takes a swing at the nearest target: Bacarov.
His blade cuts through Bacarov's thin armor with ease, drawing a bloody line across his midsection. Markham laughs heartily as his bloodlust takes over: "Behold Beliandral's gift, city boy!" Quickly, the scene has collapsed into utter chaos.
Dalton had been preparing for this. "Goodnight Abner!" he calls, as he rises to his feet and draws his temple sword in one smooth motion. He vaults up onto the table with ease, and leaps at Markham, swinging his sword in a vicious overhead chop!
♤
♢
♧
It's not the boar he fears, though the beast will surely kill him if he steps foot outside. No, it's the language falling from Markham's lips. The vile tongue he'd heard echoing through the halls of a black stoned cathedral. The same tongue he'd done so much to forget.
The world around him wavers as Markham summons his blade and tears him nearly in two. Bacarov staggers unable to reconcile the blood pouring and the sharp cold coming from his midsection.
Dalton flies across his wavering vision and launches himself bodily against Markham.
But there's a point when instinct and training take over. His body allows the stagger from the vicious wound and he tumbles back to roll again to his feet near the toppled form of the elder Dagwood. The Inspector's hands flash, one to his hip to pull his dagger, the other to grapple Abner Dagwood and press the blade to his throat.
》 (tumble backwards to Abner)
》 (dagger at throat)
"Call it off, Markham. Throw down your weapon and call off the pig!" He jerks at the old man. "You asked us to spare him, now that outcome is on you!" He coughs, blood coming from his lips, seeping from his gut wound onto the old man. "If you surrender now, I'll leave him be, by Abadar, I'll leave him be. Do it not, and you and him don't walk out of here alive."
♤
♢
♧
(uh-oh)
Bacarov attempts to tumble backwards but is cut down easily by the massive scythe.
Calwen found it hard to believe what was going on. She had hoped so very much that Markham was not one of the bad guys. Or that he would at least come around. And now Sebastian was bleeding on the floor.
Calwen was surprised to find the sword in her hand but the trained reflexes of a knight took over and now, that she was responsible for her comrades a strange, distant calm came over. "Dalton stay out of this! I have this. Now we dance, Markham!", she called out clear and confident. Hopefully the two would get that they were to flank him. "'shawski, help 'bastian. Dramin, give it your best shot, watch Abner." She let out a sharp whistle to get any feedback from Windmane, who was out there with the boar. If her trusty stallion was in danger she had to find another way out of here. She really wished she knew better what capabilities the others had.
______
Dalton shifts his stance to a defensive posture, trying to position himself so he's standing protectively over Bacarov's fallen body. "Stand down, Markham! Stand down!" he shouts, gripping his temple sword with both hands.
The moment Markham's attention is taken away from Dalton or Bacarov, toward Calwen perhaps, Dalton will drop his sword and use both hands to find his healing potion as quickly as possible, so he can pour it down the Inspector's throat.
Well I saw that wall fall... close enough!
Dramin jumps to attention especially after he sees the scythe materialize; he barely notices it fly through Bacarov and instead tries to pin the magic down.
After the thought quickly flies through his head and right out, he sees the blood on the floor and with a thousand different possibilities, he decides to settle on the falchion. "Lets slow this down a bit you madman!" He stretches out and rummages for a scroll from his pocket ; "Strilari!"
The scroll burns up and a Shield comes upon him.
Realizing his hands are empty; and his ally is on the floor he draws out his Falchion from his hip.
And just like that it all went to hell. Bacarov was on the floor. I'm pretty sure I could see his intestines. Only two fighters in the room and one was busy NOT fighting. At least Dramin was doing something. I knew Marsh would be joining in, keeping the boar busy. If there was one thing you could count on Marsh on for it was violence.
I dropped down to the floor next to Dalton and grabbed the vial from him.
"Give me that!" I snarled. "Get up and help Calwen!"
"Wtf Bacarov!
Marsh sees the giant boar begin to attack the house and commit his head into the building.
"Shit! This is some bullshit right here."
Marsh tries to spend a complete action to run to the otherside of the house and crash through a window cowboy style.
Having already tasted the bitter flavor of Markham Dagwood's scythe, Bacarov takes a chance and attempts to tumble past him toward the fallen Abner, hoping perhaps to use the old man to get Markham to back down. Before he can complete his maneuver, however, Markham's scythe lashes out yet again, carving another deep wound into his side that causes Bacarov to collapse to the ground, blood oozing from the gash.
Dalton leaps onto the table and scores a heavy blow with his Temple Sword on Markham's flank, while Calwen draws her sword and shield and moves in to form a pincer attack; outside, Windmane answers her whistle by rushing at Dahaka from behind and rearing up to strike at it with his heavy hooves; unfortunately, the boar's hide is too thick for the blow to penetrate.
Back inside, Dramin retrieves his scroll and activates his Shield spell before drawing his falchion. Warshawski swoops in behind Dalton, snatching the healing potion the monk had been drawing and sliding across the floor to Bacarov, ready to aid the fallen Inspector.
Marsh, realizing what is happening, charges at full speed toward the cabin, abandoning his hiding place in the brush. With a full head of stream, he leaps toward the large window on the near side of the cabin, crashing through it with little grace but a great deal of power. Rolling through the splintered wood, he finds himself in the kitchen- and sees Bacarov lying on the floor near death, Warshawski hovering over him with a healing potion, and the others engaging Markham in melee- a huge, wicked scythe in the huntsman's hands.
- - - -
Dahaka surges against the doorway, giving one last chance to burst through, but the distraction from Windmane proves too much, as it seems unsure of whether to commit to its assault on the door or turn its attention to the noble warhorse.
Markham laughs at the looks on everyone's faces as Bacarov hits the floor. When Calwen challenges him, throwing his offer of a dance back at him, he seems particularly amused. "Then a dance we shall have, elf! But I warn you, this is a dance with which I'm well-practiced!" Though caught between Dalton and Calwen, he ignores the monk in favor of swinging his scythe at the heavily-armored elven knight.
His words regarding the dance prove true, as he weaves his scythe under Calwen's shield and the blade hooks itself into her side in a gap between armored plates; blood flashes across the room as he tears a chunk out of Calwen. The knight wavers, but does not fall under his assault, drawing a frustrated grimace from Markham.
Marsh sees his friend down in a pool of his own blood. The room goes red. This wasn't the alley, this was Sebastian's obsession with Abadar getting him killed.
"God damn it Sebastian!"
Masher slides out of its carrier, the demonic visage leering with bits of Rob Bartley's brain matter still stuck between its teeth. Vinnie launches himself in an all out assault on the already harried man whom had lain his brother low.
"You aren't going to die on me!"
"Now you Marcum---That's another matter! Nobody slices up my brother!---NOBODY!"
Dalton is in a perfect position to strike. Warshawski would save Bacarov's life. Put it out of your mind, the monk told himself. Focus on what must be done. This scythe-swinging brute must be brought to justice.
I'm thinking too much again, just STRIKE!
His mind wiped clean of distractions, Dalton lashes out at Markham with a quick double-slice.
Dammit. I poured the potion down Bacarov's throat while the fight rung. There wasn't enough room in here for a brawl of this size. Which explains why I was being splattered with someone else's blood.
oh, poop...
Dramin sees the cluster of men around the scythe wielding Markham and he drops his Falchion, pulling out his bow in the process . Time for a change of plans then.
He rushes to a location where he can monitor the elder man's movements, even among the furniture, blood and carnage.
He eyes the target down and his training makes the melee less than a distraction, no different than two slow moving branches in the wind. He notches an arrow.
Deep breath. Focused.
If you die, then it appears she didn't have many plans for you. Perhaps it will get your mad dog son off my comrades.
The calculated shot fires out toward the old man, Dramin's face stone cold and uncaring.
---
♤
♢
♧
His eyes are closed, the sound of water licking at the shore fills his ears. There's a grit on the back of his neck and leading to the left side of his face, thick grains of wet sand. His feet are cold, wet and cold.
A chime rings in the distance, echoing across the sound of water. When he opens his eyes the world is on its side, half is dark grey the other light grey, lake sands and sky. Bacarov is on his back. He tries to speak but only coughs. After the fit subsides, he tries to let the peaceful sounds of the lake's waves rolling along the shore give him comfort.
"Don't look."
He sits upright at the sound of the voice. The sudden movement sends a bolt of pain thru his back and head. Bacarov rubs at his face but only succeeds in pressing gritty black sand along his skin.
"Don't see me."
His stomach sinks. Sebastian knows the voice. But he also knows that the man behind it had no tongue. A chill creeps up his neck and sinks into his scalp like icy fingers.
Scraping. He's hearing scraping now. Metal on stone...*scratch scratch scratch* Bacarov squeezes his eyes shut again. But he finds himself trying to get to his feet...needing to see...not wanting to but needing to.
"Don't look."
"You're dead." Bacarov says weakly, voice barely a croak. All this water and he's dry as a bone.
"I've seen the dark shores of Lake Encarthan." His dead friend responds, cold breath on Bacarov's neck. "I've seen the standing stones and the great cathedral."
"No...please stop. Please....let it fade from me." Bacarov turns enough to see Phedron, blood seeping from his mouth where he'd chewed off and swallowed his own tongue. The inspector wonders distantly how he's talking but fear drowns sense.
"I've see the doorway and the haunter in the dark...Duh u praznini ce nam troše sve...."
@Budd
Didn't notice he was down already. The arrow has already been shot and I cannot edit the post.
Ce la vie.
The fallen Abner it is then. May his god have more mercy than I.
@Budd
I don't want to break immersion for peoples and go back on a narrative so that's ok; we'll stick with the Abner shot. Hopefully it may distract his son for a bit.
In your hands Mr. Budd.
What in Asmodeus' hells am I doing?
He saw the man on the floor and in an instant he didn't see the cultist, the man touched by the demon-woman. He didn't see a threat, he didn't see magical chanting, some sort of bluff, a specter in the air. He didn't even see a knife clasped.
He just saw an old man who went too far off the line. Dragged by some bigger force.
Someone who reminds you of you Dramin?
Perhaps it was that moment that caused his shoulder to move a little too far to the right when he shot the shot, but as it was flying in the air he hoped it wouldn't hit his mark directly.
"Markham!"
He looked at the melee hoping to draw his attention.
"The next one... I won't miss twice on an old madman."
He hoped he didn't have to follow through with that threat. He wouldn't know what would happen if he had to cross that bridge.
The pain of the wound flooded through Calwen and no matter how experienced someone was, one could never prepare for that. She struggled to keep her focus and balance her position so that Markham would be cornered between Dalton and her. Don't think! Focus! There is nothing you can do to help Sebastian or Windmane right now and you cannot take another blow like this!
She must trust the others to know what they are doing, thus she does not say a word but focuses on saving their hides and tries not to think of Windmane who is alone out there with a wild beast.
Calwen does not try to hide her pain, but her motions are swift and elegant.
Before Markham has finished his follow-through against Calwen, Marsh comes barreling forward with a full head of steam and swings Masher down, crashing into the hulking huntsman's shoulder and nearly dislocating it. Dalton launches into a whirlwind of quick strikes, and while Markham manages to deflect one, the monk is simply too fast and quickly lands another blow on Markham's flank. Seeing her opportunity, Calwen pays back blood for blood, bringing her bastard sword down across Markham's chest and cutting clean through his armor of tanned hides. Blood gurgles from Markham Dagwood's mouth as he releases his grip on his scythe; it vanishes before it hits the floor. Dagwood, however, simply slumps to the floor in an undignified heap and lets out an agonized sigh as he slips into unconsciousness.
Meanwhile, Warshawski gently tilts Bacarov's head up and pours the healing potion down his throat. While his wounds are too severe to be completely healed, the bleeding comes to a halt and he seems to stabilize.
Outside, Windmane seems to realize that his attacks are not working, and backs away, preparing to break into a full gallop should the boar turn its attention toward him.
- - - -
Markham Dagwood lies on the floor in the middle of the sitting area, unconscious and breathing raggedly.
Abner Dagwood is in a similar situation; dazed by his fall, Dramin's well-aimed arrow striking him in such a way that the wound is in no way fatal, but nonetheless causes the old painter to collapse into unconsciousness.
There is still, however, the matter of the enormous boar, Dahaka, that continues to thrust its massive bulk against the side of the house. Seeming to sense that its master has fallen, it lets out a furious snort not unlike the roar of an enraged dragon, and tries once again to burst through and impale those who dared to strike Markham down.
However, even enraged, it cannot manage to break through the sturdy woodwork, its oversized tusks working against it as they catch again and again on the doorframe.
Windmane! was the though that raced through her mind as Markham went down. "Marsh, guard the hut, help 'bastian and Markham." Vincent did prove some outstanding healing skills earlier and someone big and strong had to stay inside in case that thing, whatever it was, broke through. "I take 'mane and fight this thing, Dalton with me. 'shawski, Dramin cover us through the window."
While she calls out Cawen rushes through the Window and tries to get to Windmane in order to mount him. She's clearly bleeding from the wound in her side but with both hands occupied she cannot reach for a healing potion.
"... cover you with what?" I asked, staring at Calwen's ass as she leaped through the window.
Now that Bacarov wasn't going to die, we had to deal with the pig. I'd let the others handle that. We also had to deal with the prisoners. The old man wasn't a problem, probably, but his giant of a son could wake up any minute.
"Sorry, Bacarov." I said before unbuckling and removing his belt. Then I grabbed the manacles that he had dropped as well.
Once I had them both, I crawled over to the cultist. Time to truss him up.
One hit wasn't enough, Marsh still needed to exact revenge. Good thing there is a prehistoric pig to wail away on. He needed to cover the elf too.
"Alright you walkin pork stand! You ready to be rendered into pulled pork!? Come at me. Come on you can do it. You wanna keep your master alive? Bring it!"
Marsh charges the pig, attempting to bring Masher down on its head in the doorway.
"Dramin, Sebastain keeps that healin stick thing on his wrist. Heal him up with it so he doesn't get step-foo'd by this squealer when it gets in."
"Dalton, come b@##* slap this overgrown slice of bacon in the face like you did his owner. We gotta get him tenderized a bit before we can drop him in a pot."
Dalton tosses his blade at the pig. As it sails through the air, turning slowly end over end, Dalton charges forward, ducking around Marsh with his hand held high. He leaps slightly to catch the blade's hilt midair, in a reverse grip.
On the downward arc of his jump, Dalton smash, seeking to drive his blade through the dire boar's brain in one swell foop.
"Do I look like some sort of priest Marsh?"
He never had the heart to work those devices. People say that the knowledge to activate them came from within, and wasn't exactly learned.
He really didn't like that.
"I thought you were a flippin wizard! Can't Wizards use magic wands and shit?!"
"I'm still not very damn good at it Marsh! We've never learned how to use spells as such. Arcane training doesn't take into account curing wounds!"
He knew the warrior wouldn't understand, though he knew at this point it might be best to drop it and potentially draw attention elsewhere.
"That's why I carry potions on me! I have a few in my pack Warshawski if you care to slink on over!"
When he had time to learn, maybe he would figure out the mysteries.
Until then though there were many more pressing issues.
"What the?!---Then what the heck did we give you the gnome's wand for?! And no I can't "slink' over there, as you can see I'm a bit busy!"
Calwen calls out to her steed, and Windmane obligingly rushes toward the sound of her voice, allowing her to climb through the window and into the warhorse's saddle.
Warshawski sets about restraining the unconscious Markham Dagwood, locking the manacles Bacarov had dropped onto the floor earlier around his wrists and tying his ankles with the Inspector's belt. The occult huntsman appears to be securely bound.
Marsh, meanwhile, leads the charge in attacking the massive Dahaka. Dashing in between the two sets of enormous tusks, he brings Masher down on the boar's skull with a meaty thud, drawing a squeal of pain from the enormous beast; it is here that Marsh catches a sudden, strong whiff of a strange and awful scent coming off the creature, an odor of wrongness that seems to fit with the thick, syrupy black blood that oozes from its wound. Dalton streams in from the flank, his throw-and-catch flourish adding a bit of extra power to his strike, which carves a trench into the boar's tough hide; a moment later, Dramin's arrow streaks into the wound caused by Masher. Dahaka again squeals in pain, but does not fall; if anything, its anger seems to make it even stronger.
- - - -
Now that it has targets within range of its tusks, Dahaka abandons its attempt to force its way in through the doorway and instead focuses on simply goring its attackers through the doorway. Its first target: Vincent Marsh.
The angle, however, proves too severe, and Marsh is able to twist out of the way of the oncoming tusks.
Dalton served in the kitchens of the monastery of the Way of Mankind for much of his childhood. The children would go everyday to the markets of Manaket, bringing the swine to be butchered back to the monastery on their shoulders. The older the child, the bigger the swine that was carried.
He thinks back to those happier days, remembering the parts of the boars that would slice apart the easiest, compared to the nigh-impenetrable hides found elsewhere in the pig's anatomy. Imagining his temple sword as a colossal carving knife, he sets to, trying to kill the beast before it can hurt his new friends.
"What the f~%* is that coming out of the pig?!"
"Guys! Seriously! What the f$!* is that black shit comin outta this pig?!"
Marsh reverts to default which is to apply force to anything he doesn't completely understand. A tactic that has kept him alive thus far. He throws some extra power into the attack.
"Take that you filthy gross scabrous excuse for a trichinosis laiden even toed ungulate!"
"Nevermind the wand shoot this b$+%% again Dramin! It's got black lung or somethin!"
Dramin sees the black blood, but only after Marsh brings it up. It took him a second through the tide of battle but he didn't think it was natural. A quick assessment was all he had time for right now.
He pulled back the drawstring and launched another focused shot. The blood made it hard to find a good angle though...