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//Terandar's Court//
Nathmir's bolt sails unerringly—thanks to the aid of his timely spell—several feet through the air and into the left eye socket of the smiling imp's head. Different from their behavior thus far, the thing clutches at the bolt with its left hand, emitting a hiss not unlike metal grinding across metal. It steps forward and swipes at the Nethite with its free hand—an ill-formed attack that meets only with empty space as the aasimar effortlessly leans back away from the clumsy attack.
Eldred turns to step through the doorway into his own chambers to fetch the spear therein, which provides an easy opening for his opponent to exploit. A thick, steel gauntlet comes down hard on the gunslinger's shoulder, attempting to crush and seize Eldred where he stands before he nimbly twists and frees himself from the suit of armor bearing the frowning imp's head. Scant steps later, and now within the confines of the quarters afforded him in Terandar's Bulwark, he retrieves his spear and sets it in preparation for the enemy that is hot on his heels. The scuff and grate of sabatons across stone serve as a herald to the approach and subsequent demise of Eldred's foe. Heedless of the boarspear set before it, the suit of armor propels ever forward, even when the spear's head pierces it beneath the breast to skewer its way out of an exposed hole behind the left pauldron. Spasming uncontrollably for several seconds, the thing finally goes limp and collapses onto the ground. The imp's face visor twists and vanishes, leaving a decidedly less fiendish countenance on the helmet.
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Noticing the things weak point he flicks his wrist, aware that in close quarters a crossbow was far from ideal, his mace appears in his hand. He brings it down to the helm's face, once more calling on Nethys aspect of utter destruction.
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"Mind the gap, tin man..." Eldred quips, hefting his spear in his left and scooping up ole Lia as he moves back to the hallway. In the middle of the hallway, he sees Nathmir bring his weapon down on his opponent, the mace crunching into metal.
The gunslinger holsters his pistol and eyes the results of the engagement to see if he's needed. "Got something for ya, Bunkie..." Eldred remarks to himself.
Eldred arrives just in time to witness Nathmir's strike land true, crumpling the impish visage inward under the impact of the blow. The armor spasms and thrashes violently for a matter of seconds before falling backwards and onto the stone floor. Pieces of armor scatter in all directions around the ruined helmet. An excited, sobbing gasp from the opposite side of the brass doors makes its way down the corridor where Eldred and Nathmir stand. "H...hello?" The voice seems to have steeled itself somewhat following the racket of the hollow armor's defeat; a small measure of bravery lending itself to the young man's otherwise feeble and pitiable voice.
The pair of halberds crossed through the handles yet serve as obstacle to the unidentified presence on the other side.
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//Saints' Square//
Arzazel's clenched fist pierces effortlessly the swirl of smoke and impacts hard against something solid. Thanks to his many years of fighting in the pits and the training that went with it, his knuckles do not succumb to the resistance that would likely shatter less tested bones. Instead, an explosion of small bits of dust and what looks like ebon stone erupts out of the smoking creature's backside, clattering across the stone before dissipating into black vapor. The humanoid shape of smoke and embers vanishes in a similar fashion, though the still present forms of another such entity and the maddened guardsman loom at the threshold to Saints' Square.
Hoping to capitalize on Viktor's momentary loss of balance, the guardsman barks out a command to his fellow soldier before stepping in opposite to execute a pincer maneuver against the Commissar-Knight. Obeying implicitly, the creature surges forward to rake its swirling hands across the Molthuni man's face, though he is able to duck the attack with relative ease. This exposes him to the followup attack from the Braganzan guardsman, whose axe sails around in a low-to-high arc intended to find purchase between Viktor's ribs. His armor's craftsmanship proves more than a match for his opponent's crescent blade, however. Though the attack connects, it merely spins the Commissar to the left slightly, though he finds himself once more facing off alone against two opponents.
On the southern street leading into the square, the smoke-monster continues its assault against Field-Squire Teldas, wild strokes raking harmlessly across his armor in a maddened frenzy. Though he and Adurus seem to have the situation firmly under their control, it serves yet as hindrance to their timely aid to the rest of their companions. The towering form of the monstrous creature to the west can be seen rising over the low wall of the square, still locked in combat with the Sampson.
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Eldred signals to Nathmir to hold off opening the doors while he returns to his room and grabs up his armor and shortsword. He comes back into the hallway to lean his spear against the wall while he dons his chainmail.
As he buckles on the clasps, he whispers to Nathmir. "Can you sense something south of hospitable?" The gunslinger points with his chin at the double doors still barred by the halberds.
"Corporal Eldred Pentwert, 2nd Regiment Fusiliers. Identify yourself! How'd you get locked up like this?" He continues working the buckles and clasps on his armor, focusing his ears on the words and tones being used by the simpering man.
Hope you brought your spare swaddling cloth, Dread. Frig snickers in the back of the gunslinger's head.
The gunslinger can't stop a smirk from turning up the corner of his lips.
Adurus squares off against the now outnumbered creature of smoke, throwing a cautious swing of his mace its way. He keeps his shield up as he moves to its side, trying to maneuver carefully around it to a flank.
As he moves he quickly surveys the rest of the battlefield. However, his limited vision range does not afford him a glimpse of the combat he can still hear from the other side of the courtyard.
Vincent lowers his blade from his salute position, and swivels his body with his shield side facing his enemy, as his teacher had instructed him as a boy. He was easily able to deflect the creatures attacks with his shield as he waited for an opening.
These things are spirited fighters, even if they don't pack much punch. Still, Sampson may not survive another blow from the giant one over there...I need to end this, now.
As the creature raised it's arm for another to attack again, Vincent spotted the opening he was looking for. He twisted around, and thrust the point of his longsword up into the creatures "rib cage" and slashed it away through the creatures chest area. He then moved past Adurus as quickly as he could.
"Finish this one, then help the others across the courtyard! I've got to go help Sampson before the giant one kills him!"
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Carrying now some measure of resolve, the voice answers Eldred with a fair deal less stammering than has been the case up to this point. "Izalem, sir! Izalem Ravnagask. My uncle sealed me in here when everything started happening. Please, sir, let me out!"
The name is a familiar one; Izalem Ravnagask is the nephew of Cole and Terandar Ravnagask, by way of their much less prominent sister Aleysa. He is yet young, still fresh faced and still in his middling teen years, but the family to whom he belongs makes him an important figure. Why Terandar saw it fit to lock the youth inside the chamber instead of watching over him personally is puzzling, but his words carry no hint of deception or hidden motive as they ring—albeit slightly muffled—across the hallway before Terandar's Court.
Eldred sighs heavily, a mixture of relief and irritation. He rests his spear butt on the stone ground, his right hand coming up and resting against the door as he hangs his head.
This is a bag of mess I definitely don't want to put my hand in right now. He'd learned quickly upon arrival in Braganza that you couldn't spit without your wad hitting a noble of some level. Now, in the midst of madness breaking out in the city, he's saddled with the care of a noble...a Ravnagask no less!
Want and have to are two different things, Dread. Frig whispers in the back of Eldred's mind.
The gunslinger takes a deep breath, firming his resolve and realizing quickly that his duty overrides any reservations he has at the moment. Izalem is a good kid, by his reckoning. He didn't deserve to be sealed up like a pocket mouse while the tomcats roamed the halls. Eldred leans his spear against the wall and proceeds to remove the halberds barring the door to the court chambers.
"Okay, kid, have you out shortly." Once the doors are opened, looks the kid up and down to make sure he's not injured. "We gotta move, Izalem. Keep your steel out and stick close. We're heading back to the courtyard to join up with our group. You have any idea why your Uncle had you sealed up in here? Did he give you a hint to what was going on?"
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...looking Izalem over
...estimate how best to keep the kid safe and to utilize the training he's received up to that point
...checking the halls as we make our way back to the courtyard where we last saw the party
Nathmir cast a minor spell to check the new comer and what was left of the armor monsters. He put away his light mace, resetting the sheath. He made sure his crossbow was reloaded and ready as well. Keep the new comer in his sights, he did not care for titles and so called noble blood. They were no different then any man or woman, lived and died the same. Could be killed the same, it was all perception and arrogance to him. Actions and what a person was made of or chose to make of themselves gave them standing in his eyes. Still he kept that all to himself, wise enough to know nothing would come of such comments or expressions. Personally he found nobles to often be foolish, weak, or cowardly and more so a mixture of these. With all the madness going on he would not think twice of killing the boy if he turned out to be possessed or some fiend in disguise.
He gave a prayer to Nethys as he summoned forth his god's healing aspect. A wave of white light washing over himself and Eldred.
"Not much, still enough to keep going. Nethys is only so generous so I will conserve his blessings."
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The healing energies wash over the gunslinger, setting his shoulder and setting it to rights from where the armored hulk had thumped him earlier.
"Much obliged," Eldred responds, giving the brim of his hat a pluck in the cleric's direction.
He set about strapping on his short sword in its reverse draw behind his back, still looking expectantly to the young Izalem for a response as they moved out.
"You shall not flank me, mongrel!" Viktor, annoyed that he is being flanked, decides to turn the table, stepping out from between the being made of smoke and the renegade guard. Instead, he maneuvers himself to flank the beast of smoke along with Arzazel - before taking his blade and, after infusing it with some of his arcane knowledge, swinging wildly in hopes of killing it.
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When the brass doors that afford egress into Terandar's Court are finally disbarred and opened, Nathmir is finally able to see the young Ravnagask to whom the whimpering and sobbing that previously plagued the hallway issues. His close cropped hair is the hue of gold, with eyes of a similar sheen peering out from a serene face with perfectly symmetrical features. His skin is well tanned, which is a strange contrast for one born to such a prominent family in Molthune. So many oddities facing him all at once forces a conclusion from Nathmir that has thus far eluded his gun wielding companion: Izalem Ravnagask is not a human, but planetouched much like Nathmir; of celestial heritage; an aasimar. Nathmir's divination reveals little to suggest any sort of treachery, though the key-hilt scimitar at his side exudes a faint aura. More than a cursory glance in the weapon's direction reveals it to be lightly imbued with evocation magic.
Izalem answers Eldred's questions with the voice of a perfect tenor that would be far better suited to a choir than the soldier-in-training that stands before the pair. "Uncle... that is, Bailiff Terandar, was returning from the feast when a group of soldiers approached. I could not hear what they whispered to him, but he gathered me up and tried to bring me here. The...the soldiers. Something was wrong with them. They were yelling insanities. One of them offered protests about the theft of his favorite dog before running through one of Bailiff Terandar's personal escort." His eyes now downcast, his voice waivers briefly. "I wanted to fight. I did, but I just...I froze. He threw me in here and told me to stay put, to bar the doors from inside. I'm a coward. They left me here because I'm a coward."
He draws a sleeve across eyes welling up again with tears, but manages to stammer out a little more before falling silent completely: "The noises from out there—such terrible noises. Cries of pain and death. And laughing—so much laughter..."
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//Saints' Square//
A thin ray of chilling energies blasts across the square and just past Viktor's shoulder to impact the remaining smoke-creature square in the forehead. The high pitched squeal not unlike a tea kettle—more annoying than anything else at this point—tears across the air once more, the noise grating on the Commissar-Knight's nerves greatly as it does so. The unwelcome screech is soon brought to an abrupt end as Viktor's blade sweeps without resistance through its facsimile abdomen to impact something within the roiling swell of smoke. The force of his stroke proves enough to carry through cleanly, a small spray of sparks serving as companion to the trail of arcane energies that infuse the blade. Much like the others, the creature dissipates into nothingness before Viktor's eyes, leaving only the insane guardsman to deal with on the northern street out of the square.
Vincent's heroics, admirable though they might be, are not without cost. Attempting to cut away from the frenzy of smoke before him costs him another blow against the nape of his neck as he makes his way around Saints' Square to bring much needed aid to his beleaguered comrade-in-arms, Sampson. Field-Squire Teldas learns from past mistakes, however, and recoils breathless from the impact of the hit before any of the vaporous magic that seeks to rob him of his sanity can take hold. His path continues without pursuit, as the thing seems more than willing to turn its ire to Adurus.
Meanwhile, Sampson finds himself yet in dire straits, facing down a menace over twice his size that seems immune to every sword stroke the Hermean duelist lands. Another massive arm heaves towards his chest, and it is everything he can do to avoid the full impact of the blow. Wisps of smoke and dancing embers flare up as the attack skids across his breastplate, nearly wheeling Sampson around despite causing little damage. It "growls" ferociously down at Sampson, and the heat against his skin from the enraged cry does much to add further to the comparison to a furnace it warrants.
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Arzazel struggles to believe he faces an animated flame in combat. However, Zeltresh with his tiny dagger which hurt it gives him confidence. Then, there is the bossy commissar who appears more of a talker than a fighter. At least he's providing some distraction to the flame.
These thoughts blaze quickly through his mind as his focus becomes singular: life and death of the pit. The flame looks ready to extinguish, so Arzazel sacrifices power for accuracy to secure one good hit.
Arzazel's clenched fist pierces effortlessly the swirl of smoke and impacts hard against something solid. Thanks to his many years of fighting in the pits and the training that went with it, his knuckles do not succumb to the resistance that would likely shatter less tested bones. Instead, an explosion of small bits of dust and what looks like ebon stone erupts out of the smoking creature's backside, clattering across the stone before dissipating into black vapor. The humanoid shape of smoke and embers vanishes in a similar fashion, though the still present forms of another such entity and the maddened guardsman loom at the threshold to Saints' Square.
Hoping to capitalize on Viktor's momentary loss of balance, the guardsman barks out a command to his fellow soldier before stepping in opposite to execute a pincer maneuver against the Commissar-Knight. Obeying implicitly, the creature surges forward to rake its swirling hands across the Molthuni man's face, though he is able to duck the attack with relative ease. This exposes him to the followup attack from the Braganzan guardsman, whose axe sails around in a low-to-high arc intended to find purchase between Viktor's ribs. His armor's craftsmanship proves more than a match for his opponent's crescent blade, however. Though the attack connects, it merely spins the Commissar to the left slightly, though he finds himself once more facing off alone against two opponents.
On the southern street leading into the square, the smoke-monster continues its assault against Field-Squire Teldas, wild strokes raking harmlessly across his armor in a maddened frenzy. Though he and Adurus seem to have the situation firmly under their control, it serves yet as hindrance to their timely aid to the rest of their companions. The towering form of the monstrous creature to the west can be seen rising over the low wall of the square, still locked in combat with the Sampson.
With a shake of his head Zeltresh's mind finally refocuses, seeing the creature only a few feet in from of him. When did he.....how did....? Later. Taking another step away the gnome begins casting again, again not altering the magics so that another blast of frigid air lashes out at the creature.
"You shall not flank me, mongrel!" Viktor, annoyed that he is being flanked, decides to turn the table, stepping out from between the being made of smoke and the renegade guard. Instead, he maneuvers himself to flank the beast of smoke along with Arzazel - before taking his blade and, after infusing it with some of his arcane knowledge, swinging wildly in hopes of killing it.
A thin ray of chilling energies blasts across the square and just past Viktor's shoulder to impact the remaining smoke-creature square in the forehead. The high pitched squeal not unlike a tea kettle—more annoying than anything else at this point—tears across the air once more, the noise grating on the Commissar-Knight's nerves greatly as it does so. The unwelcome screech is soon brought to an abrupt end as Viktor's blade sweeps without resistance through its facsimile abdomen to impact something within the roiling swell of smoke. The force of his stroke proves enough to carry through cleanly, a small spray of sparks serving as companion to the trail of arcane energies that infuse the blade. Much like the others, the creature dissipates into nothingness before Viktor's eyes, leaving only the insane guardsman to deal with on the northern street out of the square.
Adurus squares off against the now outnumbered creature of smoke, throwing a cautious swing of his mace its way. He keeps his shield up as he moves to its side, trying to maneuver carefully around it to a flank.
As he moves he quickly surveys the rest of the battlefield. However, his limited vision range does not afford him a glimpse of the combat he can still hear from the other side of the courtyard.
Vincent lowers his blade from his salute position, and swivels his body with his shield side facing his enemy, as his teacher had instructed him as a boy. He was easily able to deflect the creatures attacks with his shield as he waited for an opening.
These things are spirited fighters, even if they don't pack much punch. Still, Sampson may not survive another blow from the giant one over there...I need to end this, now.
As the creature raised it's arm for another to attack again, Vincent spotted the opening he was looking for. He twisted around, and thrust the point of his longsword up into the creatures "rib cage" and slashed it away through the creatures chest area. He then moved past Adurus as quickly as he could.
"Finish this one, then help the others across the courtyard! I've got to go help Sampson before the giant one kills him!"
Vincent's heroics, admirable though they might be, are not without cost. Attempting to cut away from the frenzy of smoke before him costs him another blow against the nape of his neck as he makes his way around Saints' Square to bring much needed aid to his beleaguered comrade-in-arms, Sampson. Field-Squire Teldas learns from past mistakes, however, and recoils breathless from the impact of the hit before any of the vaporous magic that seeks to rob him of his sanity can take hold. His path continues without pursuit, as the thing seems more than willing to turn its ire to Adurus.
Meanwhile, Sampson finds himself yet in dire straits, facing down a menace over twice his size that seems immune to every sword stroke the Hermean duelist lands. Another massive arm heaves towards his chest, and it is everything he can do to avoid the full impact of the blow. Wisps of smoke and dancing embers flare up as the attack skids across his breastplate, nearly wheeling Sampson around despite causing little damage. It "growls" ferociously down at Sampson, and the heat against his skin from the enraged cry does much to add further to the comparison to a furnace it warrants.
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//Saints' Square//
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The footsteps of someone or something approaches Sampson and his opponent from the southwest. Such is the desperation of his current engagement, however, that he can not afford to spare an immediate glance to see who or what it might be. His life hangs in the balance, and even a brief mistake will tip the scales at this moment. The brutish entity glowers down at him from above... if only the Hermean could find a weakness to exploit.
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Sampson lets rage take him for the first time since he can remember. Normally the feeling of battle is joyous, but this is just miserable. No matter how good his form or technique this beast remains elusive. Pure whit hot rage at being stifled will have to suffice. The Hermean warrior charges forward, slamming his shoulder into the huge creature. As he connects with its solid core, it rocks backward away from him. He brings his falcata up with the blade reversed, the curved sharp edge pointing towards himself. He rams it through the spot where a human's sternum would be, and then yanks down with all his weight and strength. A blow which would open a man's ribcage as neatly as a letter. In this case his razor sharp falcata shatters whatever solid bits there are inside the smoky giant as it whips out of the monster's chest.
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Round 5
With the flame being dispersed, Arzazel sees the madman attacking the commissar as the only enemy close. Not wanting to kill the madman, he charges him aiming for an incapacitating target. Finish the fight fast.
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"Uncle... that is, Bailiff Terandar, was returning from the feast when a group of soldiers approached. I could not hear what they whispered to him, but he gathered me up and tried to bring me here. The...the soldiers. Something was wrong with them. They were yelling insanities. One of them offered protests about the theft of his favorite dog before running through one of Bailiff Terandar's personal escort." His eyes now downcast, his voice waivers briefly. "I wanted to fight. I did, but I just...I froze. He threw me in here and told me to stay put, to bar the doors from inside. I'm a coward. They left me here because I'm a coward."
He draws a sleeve across eyes welling up again with tears, but manages to stammer out a little more before falling silent completely: "The noises from out there—such terrible noises. Cries of pain and death. And laughing—so much laughter..."
Eldred hears rain rattling on his armor and helm. He remembers scrubbing at his eyes where the gunpowder residue had mixed with water and begun caking on his face in black splotches. It was his first night in country, first patrol and everything had gone to the Darklands in a flash of magic and a hail of gunfire. Half his scouting group dead and the other half hunkered down as the shrieks of harpies and other creatures began drowning out the torrential rain.
Quite a night, Dread. You only pissed yourself twice as I recall.
Yeah, and you spent half the night with your face buried up your own arse trying to get away, Frig. Eldred responds. He doesn't realize a small grin held at the corner of his mouth.
Ahh, the memories... Frig's chuckle echoes through the gunslinger's mind.
"Fear's as big a part of battle as a gun or a sword, Izamel. It can drive you to be cautious, see all sides of a situation and it can save your life. Best lesson for it? Make sure fear doesn't rule you." He looks at the youngling and rests an uncharacteristically comforting grip on Izamel's shoulder. "Hells, kid, I nearly soiled my armor first engagement."
You did, soil 'em!
Shut it, Frig.
Dismissing the words of his long dead friend, the gunslinger takes on a more serious tone as he looks the young man in the eye and continues. "Keep your cool, son, remember the line of your fathers, remember your training. Follow our lead, keep your eyes open and we'll get through this little jackpot together." He gives the kid's shoulder a squeeze and releases it.
"This here's Nathmir, in case you don't know him." He nods to the aasimar next to him. "Cleric of Nethys, so be sure to stay on his good sides."
"As for this mess," Eldred grabs up his spear from where he leaned it against the wall. "Don't worry, I'm sure the fun's just beginning. You've only missed the first waltz, plenty of dancin' to go around."
...taking another looksee down the hall to make sure nothing's coming.
"C'mon, I'm sure Vikkie's gettin' all misty eyed waiting for us in the courtyard." He prepares to move off, nodding to Nathmir and Izalem.
Nathmir simply stares at the boy, his eyes their normal whirl of colors.
"You stay in front of me. If I can't keep an eye on you I may mistake you for an enemy. Anyways nothing like experience to build up your courage, survival instincts will take over should that fail you. Even a mouse will lash out if cornered."
Their is no levity in his tone or words. Clearly he has seen such things play out and the results. How often is the only unknown as well as how many more are to come.
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//Saints' Square//
A warm gust of sulfur tinged air explodes out and around Sampson's frame, preceded by a bulge of dispersing smoke. Of the creature he finally and lethally scored a hit against there is no sign; no cry of anguish or suffering ruin. Despite all its size and ferocity, the hulking creature greets oblivion not with a bang, but a whimper. It is in this moment of clarity afforded by his victorious retaliation that Sampson is able to take stock of the situation more easily. Field-Squire Vincent Teldas proves to be the owner of the footsteps that still approach from the southeast, while the northern and southern streets out of the square still play home to their own sounds of combat.
Arzazel's rock hard fist slams squarely into the guardsman's chest, his chain armor offering little protection as the links drive harshly into his chest and lungs. He doubles over, trying and failing to suck in air from the half-orc's well placed blow. His attempts to muster words or retort die a choked death in his throat long before they can be uttered. Released from his grip is the axe that had deprived Viktor of his own weapon moments prior. He is exposed and vulnerable—if ever there were an opportunity to subdue the man without further injury, now is it.
Screeching a hollow and high pierced cry in Adurus' face, what had been Vincent's foe scant seconds ago allows its wrath to settle instead on the new obstacle between it and its former quarry. A wicked, malign light emanates from twin fires imitating eyes. Such is the assault that follows that Adurus, well armed and armored though he is, finds himself reeling back from the unceasing windmill of blows. Bursts of smoke trailing embers explode with each blow, kicking up a torrent of befuddling vapors each time. Adurus finds himself focusing only on the burning eyes that continue to glare up at him. They dance with spite, and flare ever brighter, threatening to consume the Squire utterly in a tide of fire and despair. His mind reels back to his past, when his own fires nearly overcame, and burned away eye and flesh alike. The pain of that day is suddenly very real and vivid once more.
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Though still a far cry from brave or eager, Eldred's words seem to meet with a favorable, steeling response within Izalem. He stifles what tears had threatened to embarrass the youth further, setting his jaw and nodding to himself briefly while his eyes still regard the stone floor beneath the trio. Finally, he forces his gaze to meet first Eldred, then Nathmir.
"Yes, sirs. Thank you. No more hiding from now on; I'll do my best. I'll make Uncl... Bailiff Terandar proud. And I'll make sure he knows full and well the service you have both rendered me today." Obeying the far-senior duo of soldiers serving as escort, he files in directly in front of Nathmir just as the Nethite instructs. The return to the courtyard is, thankfully, uneventful; neither armor nor spirit seeks to rise up against them or their chosen path. Emerging outside several minutes later, however, all are disappointed to note that the courtyard is quite thoroughly empty. There are no signs of violence and no residual auras like the ones that hung over the suicidal guardswoman just outside of The Bulwark's gates. There is only the patter of the finally-slowing rainfall against the flagstones and tiles around them.
Seeing the giant dissipate, Vincent continues over to Sampson, allowing the magic he had called up to enhance his allies weapons do end. On his way over, he had noted that the Northern front had fallen to just the guard who for some reason appeared to be allied with these things, and Vincent did not want to risk his death.
As he nears Sampson, he says, "You alright? I would have been here sooner, but we met some resistance of our own."
Vincent's hand begins glowing with white energy, and he places it on the Hermean's massive shoulder. Immediately, healing energies wash over the man. While the magic does not heal all of his wounds, it helps keep the man from Death's Door.
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"I know you'll do your best, son." Eldred gives the youngling a confident nod. "As for letting the Bailiff know anything, hells, don't mention it. Might wind up with me getting more work than I'd care to handle!" He gives Izalem a grin and a knock on the shoulder and heads down the stairs to the courtyard.
When they arrive to find that the courtyard is empty, the gunslinger pulls the brim of his hat and lets it go in frustration, water drops flicking upward. "Ain't that a surprise? Good old Vikki decided to take a powder." He spits on the flagstone and shifts his grip on the boar spear so he can keep his right hand free to grab ole Lia in a pinch.
Looking over in the direction of the Saints' Square, Elred spits again as the wheels turn in his soldier's mind. "Well, he can shove it where he sun don't shine," He grumbles to himself, then turns to Nathmir. "We're suppose to meet up with Samson and Vincent and the rest over by the big statue, right? Let's figure Vikki and the others headed that way too. Maybe got tired of waiting or something shiny drew his attention. Let's follow through with the plan."
"C'mon, Izalem. There's work yet, and we're the men to see it done." With that, the gunslinger heads off in the direction of Saints' Square hoping the rest of the group - even Viktor - are fairing well.
...going to Saints' Square per the original plan, looking out for danger along the way and perhaps a sign of the rest of our contingent.
Whoop! Min/Max time. A 1 yesterday and a 20 today!
Sampson nods to Vincent. "Thanks," he says, shuddering as the battle rage leaves him. The familiar blanket of numbness settles back down over his shoulder and he goes to retrieve Betrayal, checking its blade for nicks. "Do you know what's going on?"
Vincent shakes his head, "Not yet. These things were here when we arrived."
He then turns to see how things are going, when he notices Adurus' strange actions in the face of the elemental a assault. He tightens his grip on his blade and shield. "Let's go finish this one off over there," he points his sword back at the elemental, "Viktor and his group appear to have the guard under control."
Seeing the guard disarmed, stunned, and dazed, Viktor shouts out a command. "Subdue! Do not kill this one! He's still one of ours, and he might be saved! Someone help me get him on the ground!" And with that, Viktor lunges at the man, attempting to forcibly grab on to him - but ends up slipping in a puddle just as he lunges, causing him to miss his target, nearly falling over face first in the process.
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The footsteps of someone or something approaches Sampson and his opponent from the southwest. Such is the desperation of his current engagement, however, that he can not afford to spare an immediate glance to see who or what it might be. His life hangs in the balance, and even a brief mistake will tip the scales at this moment. The brutish entity glowers down at him from above... if only the Hermean could find a weakness to exploit.
Sampson lets rage take him for the first time since he can remember. Normally the feeling of battle is joyous, but this is just miserable. No matter how good his form or technique this beast remains elusive. Pure whit hot rage at being stifled will have to suffice. The Hermean warrior charges forward, slamming his shoulder into the huge creature. As he connects with its solid core, it rocks backward away from him. He brings his falcata up with the blade reversed, the curved sharp edge pointing towards himself. He rams it through the spot where a human's sternum would be, and then yanks down with all his weight and strength. A blow which would open a man's ribcage as neatly as a letter. In this case his razor sharp falcata shatters whatever solid bits there are inside the smoky giant as it whips out of the monster's chest.
A warm gust of sulfur tinged air explodes out and around Sampson's frame, preceded by a bulge of dispersing smoke. Of the creature he finally and lethally scored a hit against there is no sign; no cry of anguish or suffering ruin. Despite all its size and ferocity, the hulking creature greets oblivion not with a bang, but a whimper. It is in this moment of clarity afforded by his victorious retaliation that Sampson is able to take stock of the situation more easily. Field-Squire Vincent Teldas proves to be the owner of the footsteps that still approach from the southeast, while the northern and southern streets out of the square still play home to their own sounds of combat.
Seeing the giant dissipate, Vincent continues over to Sampson, allowing the magic he had called up to enhance his allies weapons do end. On his way over, he had noted that the Northern front had fallen to just the guard who for some reason appeared to be allied with these things, and Vincent did not want to risk his death.
As he nears Sampson, he says, "You alright? I would have been here sooner, but we met some resistance of our own."
Vincent's hand begins glowing with white energy, and he places it on the Hermean's massive shoulder. Immediately, healing energies wash over the man. While the magic does not heal all of his wounds, it helps keep the man from Death's Door.
Sampson nods to Vincent. "Thanks," he says, shuddering as the battle rage leaves him. The familiar blanket of numbness settles back down over his shoulder and he goes to retrieve Betrayal, checking its blade for nicks. "Do you know what's going on?"
Vincent shakes his head, "Not yet. These things were here when we arrived."
He then turns to see how things are going, when he notices Adurus' strange actions in the face of the elemental a assault. He tightens his grip on his blade and shield. "Let's go finish this one off over there," he points his sword back at the elemental, "Viktor and his group appear to have the guard under control."
With the flame being dispersed, Arzazel sees the madman attacking the commissar as the only enemy close. Not wanting to kill the madman, he charges him aiming for an incapacitating target. Finish the fight fast.
Arzazel's rock hard fist slams squarely into the guardsman's chest, his chain armor offering little protection as the links drive harshly into his chest and lungs. He doubles over, trying and failing to suck in air from the half-orc's well placed blow. His attempts to muster words or retort die a choked death in his throat long before they can be uttered. Released from his grip is the axe that had deprived Viktor of his own weapon moments prior. He is exposed and vulnerable—if ever there were an opportunity to subdue the man without further injury, now is it.
Screeching a hollow and high pierced cry in Adurus' face, what had been Vincent's foe scant seconds ago allows its wrath to settle instead on the new obstacle between it and its former quarry. A wicked, malign light emanates from twin fires imitating eyes. Such is the assault that follows that Adurus, well armed and armored though he is, finds himself reeling back from the unceasing windmill of blows. Bursts of smoke trailing embers explode with each blow, kicking up a torrent of befuddling vapors each time. Adurus finds himself focusing only on the burning eyes that continue to glare up at him. They dance with spite, and flare ever brighter, threatening to consume the Squire utterly in a tide of fire and despair. His mind reels back to his past, when his own fires nearly overcame, and burned away eye and flesh alike. The pain of that day is suddenly very real and vivid once more.
Zeltresh lets out a sigh of relief as flame creature in front of them fades and his companions move to deal with the delusional guardsman. He quickly scans the area. We're missing people. A lot of them.
Hearing the high-pitched cry from across the square the gnome begins moving forward toward what must be another of his new friends in trouble. He curses his short legs as he realizes he is still very far away from the combat, too far away for even most of his spells to reach. With a quick decision he spins on his heels and again taps into his arcane energies, sending a wave of magic toward the guardsman in an attempt to help Arzazel and Viktor by clouding the enemy's mind. See how YOU like it!
Seeing the guard disarmed, stunned, and dazed, Viktor shouts out a command. "Subdue! Do not kill this one! He's still one of ours, and he might be saved! Someone help me get him on the ground!" And with that, Viktor lunges at the man, attempting to forcibly grab on to him - but ends up slipping in a puddle just as he lunges, causing him to miss his target, nearly falling over face first in the process.
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//Saints' Square//
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Still coughing and sputtering, staggering on uneasy legs, the guardsman remains defiant in the face of his adversaries. His mind-addled zealotry will not allow him to fail—to falter. Though he stands nearly alone against a tide of adversaries, he does not yield. He begins to master himself once more, inhaling deeply just as a fluttering field of strange arcane energies swims about his face. His eyes lose focus and he begins looking around confusedly, slowly reaching for things that are not there and blinking hard as he fails to will away Zeltresh's cantrip.
Further up the street, arriving by way of Terandar's Bulwark are the forms of Eldred, Nathmir, and Izalem. Though the rain has lessened significantly since their time spent inside the fortress, it still serves to obstruct whatever madness is unfolding on the fringes of Saints' Square. The shapes of Viktor and Arzazel can be seen clearly enough assailing what looks to be a Braganzan guardsman. The wind carries promises of commotions elsewhere in the area, though the trio can do little but hasten their approach for the time being.
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The gunslinger holds up a hand as he spots motion through the falling rain. Looking over his shoulder, Nathmir nods that he's seen it too.
"Looks like ole Vikki's throwin' a sock party and didn't invite us." He works his shoulders a bit, making sure his armor is settled, casting a wary ear to the sounds of commotion further out of sight. "Hustle up, let's see if we can lend a hand."
Eldred sets a quick pace, but keeps his eyes and ears open for potential hazards along the way. Going so far as to pause at opportune moments to listen and reassess. "Look kid, can't go plowin' into a battle without knowing the lay of the land. Don't get drowned in the details, but user your head." It's a small moment of education, but something in the young Izalem brings out the instructor in Eldred Pentwert.
...making sure we don't get t-boned by some baddies as we approach...
Round 5
Arzazel watches the commissar unable to down a stunned opponent in obvious disbelief, which becomes amplified when he orders to them take the guardsman down without killing. He shrugs and grabs some mud from the street. He launches the mud at the guard's face and follows the mud with a knee to the solar plexus.
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Reeling and left open from Zeltresh's cantrip, the guardsman is nearly defenseless for the mud pie that collides with his face. Arzazel does not account for the force with which he hurled the projectile, however. The impact of the distraction carries the Molthuni man's head backwards, and his footing is compromised thereafter, resulting in a few wavering steps backwards that places him well out of the way of the vicious knee that follows suit. Not encountering the resistance of the guardsman's body as expected, Arzazel's attack spins him about and nearly throws the ex-pit fighter off balance. As the gnome's assault begins to fade, the guardsman recovers from one of the numerous madnesses afflicting him, enough so to become capable once more of self preservation.
With one hand wiping furiously at the obstruction to his vision, he places his free hand before him, forearm out and raised in a warding gesture to deflect oncoming blows, spitting through clenched teeth, "Heathen curs! Lady of Valor take you all!"
Feelings of despair and overwhelming pain subside from Adurus almost as quickly as they begin. The squire's eyes regain focus in time to behold the creature before him lashing out with another whirlwind of strikes, though his footing and martial training see that its onslaught is met with an implacable wall in the form of his shield. Each blow hammers harmlessly in puffs of smoke and ember against the man's defense, while his free hand tightens comfortably around the haft of his heavy mace.
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Adurus's mind suddenly comes back to the battle with the creature assaulting him, his shield holding back the attacks as he regains his composure. He waits another fraction of a second, then takes a deep breath through the nostrils. He lets it out in an angry whoop as he swings the mace high, letting his shield down a moment so he can bring the bludgeon in a wide arc toward and through the creature's "head".
Adurus' chosen target proves poor, though the overzealous nature of his swing carries the strike through true. The creature's head disperses into several clouds around the mace's flanged head, encountering no resistance as it meets its mark. The blow follows a trajectory down and through the creature's neck and sternum, however, finally colliding with something solid as the swing reaches the smoky creature's stomach. The forceful impact sends shivers along the length of Adurus' extended hand and arm, while the mace forces a round, jagged knot of burning stone out through the creature's groin. It collides with the stone street, though is reduced to an explosion of dust and smoke beneath the squire's impressive blow. The smoking form of his foe looks as if it is attempting to reattach itself to the shattered remnants of its dislodged core for a mere moment before it vanishes into thin air.
"That man is mad, and two of you can't subdue him? Pitiful."
Sampson begins to slowly walk over towards the Commissar and orc, his blades sheathed and arms crossed over his chest. He is frowning. That gibbering baboon is no worthy foe, why do they toy with him so?
Just as Vincent began moving Adurus' direction, he watches as his comrade obliterates the elemental creature with a vicious swing of his mace.
Impressed, he turns his attention to their final opponent, and Sampson's disdain for their inability to subdue him.
"Not all of us are as big as you. Let's keep him from running off and someone else killing him by mistake."
Vincent sheathes his sword as well, though he keeps his shield ready in case the man manages to actually be able to fend off the array of opposition against him.
Moving alongside the large soldier, Vincent moves across Saint's Square, nodding to Adurus and pointing to the crazed guard opposite him on the square. He looks over the gnome,and decides he is in no immediate danger. As such, he continues on towards his quarry.
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"He's close enough," Sampson says, pointing to the half-orc who nearly matches him in size.
Vincent can't help but smirk at the soldiers retort as he picks up his pace.
"Almost only counts in horseshoes and fireballs."
Failing to grapple his insane foe, Viktor curses and spits on the ground, before instead attempting to maneuver himself in front of the madman, allowing his ally a better chance at hitting him.
However, thanks in part to the rain, Viktor slips slightly, causing his balance to shift incorrectly, negating any attempt he had at distracting the foe long enough for Arzazel to improve his attack.
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Back pressed against the rise of a thick stone wall behind and all avenues of escape blocked off—not that the maddened fellow is attempting to depart in the first place—the guardsman manages with his right hand to slough the mud away from his eyes and afford him clarity of vision again. The zealous gleam in the man's eyes burn just as brightly as they have since the fool led Sampson on a merry chase through the twists and turns of the Vaultspires. Even as the three forms of Eldred, Nathmir, and Izalem approach from up the street, the steel in his resolve actually seems to strengthen. His gauntlet encased hands clench, and the man unleashes an unintelligible warcry as he lunges forward to swing a wild haymaker at Viktor. Even as the Commissar Field-Squire sidesteps the wide swing, Arzazel sails into action just as quickly. This time, the half-orc's knee collides brutally with midsection before the once-pit-fighter swivels around the guardsman's backside to clamp a vicelike headlock on the off-balanced Molthunite.
His victim thrashing in futility, Arzazel's hold finally renders him unconscious, his body going limp and sliding ingloriously into a heap on the rain soaked streets.