Nme’an finds the choppy surface of the grey, rainy lake fascinating.
The large woodchopper’s features are difficult for Themp and Mot make out from this distance, obscured by the heavy, dark cloak that hangs from his shoulders. The hood is drawn up over his head, but with each swing sways long, dark hair that is also soaked. By their reckoning, the cottage dweller is at least the same size as the Casns, if not a head taller. His big leather boots are worn and mud-caked. The bulky form stoops and reaches a thick, bare, muscular arm out to place a new hunk of wood onto the chopping block. The heavy axehead resumes chopping. A gruff, low grumbling is nearly drowned out by the downpour and the distance, and his back is mostly turned to his observers.
Themp notices a grotesque detail while squinting in that direction. The upright spikes seem to display heads of men, dwarves, and gnomes. The men have their eyes gouged out, the dwarves have their beards shorn off, and the gnomes have smiles cut into their colorless cheeks.
"I cannot imagine a friendly person living so close to such a tower, but then this we do not know surely. One way or other, we will see each other. We may as well approach with the advantage of having seen him first."
"And perhaps you will be right, Themp. Mayhaps he is friendly." Nme'an says as he starts walking in the direction of the rain obscured cottage.
"Say, you guys, I'm not entirely used to the concept of friendly, but does it encompass psychopaths who display the severed head of his human prey?" asks Themp, rhetorically, while pulling his cloak tighter and lowering his silhouette.
"Nae." Mot replies to the city-boy, sniffing against the downpour. Resting his spear across his broad shoulders the Highlander squelches through the mud after the half-elven knight. Calling quietly over his shoulder "Mahbea yoo twoo shood stah oout oof saght. Case he's nae frendley."
Beorae gives the scene a quick scan and quietly slips in behind Nme’an. The heads are horribly disgusting and and Beorae feels a roiling in her stomach when she looks at them. ”I do not like those,” she whispers, avoiding looking at the disfigured lumps directly.
The druidess directs Shark to quietly split off from the group so as to have him approach from a slightly different angle. The tiger hangs low and silently pads off, staying about 40 feet from the group.
Olp stalks on the far side of the Mot and Nme’an, opposite to Shark’s prowling. His crouches, holding his shortspear and large wooden round shield low to the ground and keeping to the low foliage of the thinning forest.
The dark giant of a man labors under the sheets of rain, his hulking form making the large axe in his hands seem small, and the tremendous force behind each chop seem effortless. Oblivious to the five that advance on his small cottage, now two hundred feet between, he swats aside the cloven wood with the flat of the axehead and brings a new hunk of wood to the chopping block. With each grunt, and flinging of rainwater with the swings, the wood round is reduced to wedges. Visibly sucking in and huffing out a great sigh, the huge laborer stoops and gathers the wet firewood. Arms full, he turns back toward the cottage and hesitates in his movement, his hooded face turned directly toward the half-elves and Mot. The champions of Thaleniel see a breastplate smeared with mud or soot under his thick dark cloak. After a few long, hurried strides, the firewood is dumped haphazardly under the eave of the tiny, leaning house. The giant of a man slings a leather strap over his shoulder, and then steps out into the rain with an arched longbow pointed at Nme’an and Mot. At his belt, the cloak is pulled back to reveal a quiver of arrows.
“Och! T’ere’s cloose aenoof, lads! Mind yer wee sneekin’ lizaard too!” bellows a thick, Urlghain brogue, the towering speaker twitches his aim at Olp before it returns to the pair. In the archer’s haste, the hood is fallen back and rain spatters a big, pale head with heavy brow. A clean shaven face better fit for a beard is framed by long, oily black hair dripping from the rain. A long, two-handed grip of a greatsword sticks out over his shoulder.
“I bea hearin’ wot brrengs teh likes a’ yoo two out this wey,” he demands with no small amount of distrust. He stares down the arrow shaft at the half-elf and the Urlghain with an eerie eye that seems to bore into them even at one hundred feet away.
"We are here seeking those like me and mean you no harm or trouble. Have you seen them?" Nme'an shouts through the rain.
Mot stiffens as the sounds of highland brogue over the falling rain. His hackles start to rise, but he tries to follow his companions lead.
"Aye, wea'r looken fer tha kengs mehn." Mot calls out after Nme'an, squinting against the downpour. He jerks his chin at the little cottage before continuing. "Yoor ae loong way froom tha Highlaands. Och aye?" Big blue eyes narrow further. "Whaat clan are yoo from?"
After a long silence, he answers the knight first. “Aye, I seent yer kengs mehn. Tokk’d to ‘em too. Teh Knight’s o’ teh Donfelloower, t’ey callt t’emselves…” His piercing gaze shifts to Mot. “Aye, far from teh Highlands we are, but I’ve learnt tah mehk me hoam where I lie. My clan is Tare’Owluf. I am Crayeeg Teh Twice-Slehn. Wot clan hail yoo from?” He calls back with a grin that is not friendly in the least.
Tare’Owluf’s long pause was for him deciding what to say, and what to leave out. He may not be lying, but he isn’t telling everything he knows. He seems to be interested in Mot’s answer, as any proud highlander might be. His distrust is common attitude expressed by highlanders to strangers unknown to them. Based on their greeting so far, this Tare’Owluf doesn’t seem to be the type with many friends.
The clan name sticks in Mot simple mind, however. He had heard it before, but years ago when he was but a lad and the old crone was telling another tale of Casns history. Something bad for the Casns happened in that story… and the Tare’Owluf’s had a part to play in it.
Tare’Owluf is a clan thought extinct by historians. Once a powerful among the Urlghain clans several centuries ago, they dwindled into obscurity due to infighting among other clans. The area over which they ruled bordered the Bloomrot Marshes, on the northern reaches of the highlands. Their lands have since been divided amongst neighboring clans, and few of the living that might recall the name only know it by the stories of their elders.
About twenty years ago, there was a band of brigands that preyed on the farmers and merchants along the roads between Port Elam and Clearwater. The group evaded capture for a whole year, and grew in notoriety, quickly drawing the attention of the Order of the Dawnflower. It was said the bandit leader was a giant Urlghain, capable of cleaving a horse in half with his mighty sword. The greedy band was feared for brutality and senseless violence. At the end of the following summer, the leader of the brigands was finally caught by the knights, and sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. By the brief account of his execution, he issued a curse, that "Black Craig" would rise again, and destroy the holy order of knights. But shortly after, his slackened body at the end of the noose said otherwise.
Something seems wrong about the old highlander, but Nme'an can't quite place what.
"Did they go to the tower?" he should back across the distance between himself and the other man. Engaging with him more than necessary seems... not necessary if not down right dangerous to the Knight Lieutenant.
A dark glint takes Mot's hooded eyes at the unspoken challenge. Lowering his spear from where it rested on his shoulders, he plants it's butt firmly in the soaked loam. Almost quietly he says, "Mah name is the soond of the wind, the might of the stoorm! Mah name es the whisper oof ae woman, the final cry oof ahn enemy!" He straightens up to his full six foot, eleven inches before continuing in a strong voice. "Ah ahm Mot tha Woolfsbane, Slayer oof Beests, Swimmer oof Rivers, Chaampeeoon oof Thale'ial." His own smile mirrors that of the strange Urlghain standing before him.
Whispering over to Nme'an what he's heard during his travels through Thaleniel's taverns, Mot tries to remember what the old Crone used to say about these, Tare'Owluf...
"Secoond son oof CASNS!"
Tare’Owluf was a powerful tribe, in the days long before the rule of Andreat kings, when clans were truly free. Their lands spread over the northern hills, even into the Bloomrot Marches. Their farmers and traders supplied the best peat in the area. However, few of their neighbors trusted the leaders of the clan, and fewer still kept peace with the Tare’Owluf. Always, they asserted ownership of land or resources that were not theirs by right, and often succeeded with bullying or treachery. As their enemies increased, it was whispered that they laid with giants (sworn enemies to the Urlghain since before time can remember) to produce monstrous warriors -sheer terrors in battle. These rumors intensified the hatred toward the devious clan, and it became clearer in skirmishes with the powerful clan that some of their sages dabbled in dark arts, wreaking unnatural power against their enemies. Deals with devils, infant sacrifices to the old ones, soul-binding with long dead spirits -the exact source of their wicked magic was never learned, but it could not be denied. As was prone to happen from time to time in the bloody history of the highlands, every clan was dragged into this war by one alliance or another.
Casns was a smaller tribe in that time, but their warriors more than made up for their numbers with ferocity. A pivotal battle, of highlander against highlander, called Conrugahn’s Folly, the proud Casns charged alongside allies into the thick of Tare’Owluf men and foul friends. The black clouds rumbled over the wardrums and squeal of pipes, and the grassy loam became sodden red mud. Girdi Casns, warlord of the clan, wielded a runic magical sword of great renown, and with his band of hardy men, broke through the mass of warriors to find half-giant Conrugahn Tare’Owluf, the head of the treacherous clan.
Fighters from neither side dared to interfere as the Casns greatsword swung against the spiked flail of the Tare’Owluf. Despite being outmatched in strength of arm, Girdi’s skill with the blade nearly brought down the monster of a man. In the moment that the Casns warlord lifted the runic steel to dispatch the hulking corruption that lay beaten, he cried out in agony as the bones in his arms and legs suddenly snapped, with white jagged points sticking out from his hairy limbs. The witch wife of Conrugahn had summoned dark magics and interfered with the duel, reducing Girdi to a heap of helpless anguish. The half-giant warlord crawled to the Casns and was quick to remove Girdi’s head from his body with the family sword before Girdi’s sons could rush to his aid. Tossing the severed head aside with labored laugh, the Tare’Owluf chieftain leaned on the greatsword as a crutch and hobbled back to his sorceress. The grasses grew up and ensnared the pursuing Casns men. Just as a horrible, blackish-purple fire began to dance around the witch, two thrown spears dug into the meaty back of the retreating Conrugahn. He fell face down at the feet of his wife, and did not move. Fueled by rage, two sons of Girdi broke free of the enchanted grass, and charged the witch wreathed in purple flame. She took hold of the Casns sword with an evil look, and a blast of black magic knocked everyone nearby off their feet. When the purple vapors cleared, Lady Tare’Owluf and the Casns family sword were nowhere to be found. Conrugahn laid dead before them, and by day’s end the Tare’Owluf forces were routed.
The weakened enemy put up a dozen more desperate skirmishes, but the war against the treacherous clan was won on the day Conrugahn fell. Their lands were divided amongst the chief victors, and any remnant of the Tare’Owluf line was put to the sword. In that time, and years after, the sons of Girdi Casns sought after every echo of a clue to reclaim their father’s sword. They were never successful, and tales of Casns bravery and misfortune were added to their history with each passing generation.
“Aye. Gehv t’em permission tah use me boat,” he nods to the half-elf. “Fer a price…” The bow lowers, but his thick gnarled fingers still hold the fletching against the string, ready to be redrawn and aimed at a moment’s notice. He stares dully at long-winded introduction from Mot, suddenly breaks into a wide crooked tooth grin at the clan name. “A Casns?” He throws back his black mop of a head, “HA! Teh gods doo haev a sehnse o’ huumor!”
The arrow goes back into the quiver, and much of the tension in the hulking archer seems to evaporate, though he still seems far from good-natured. Craig Tare’Owluf points to a spot in the semicircle of sharp wooden stakes that bristle out around the little cottage. “Fand yer wey t’rew t’ere, eff ye wannae tok aboot usin’ me boat. No traps en t’at spot.”
His towering, bulky form swaggers over to the wall of the cottage. The structure shakes faintly when he leans against it. Under the narrow eave, he produces a smoking pipe and a leather pouch. Tare’Owluf packs a bowl that looks like a child’s toy in his huge hands, and begins lighting it beneath the protrusion of thatching.
Mot begins quickstepping towards the circle of spikes. His muscles rigid and tense as the big warrior remembers the old Crone's stories. Tare'Owluf the name was like bile in Mots mind. There were many and more stories about the fabled greatsword of the Casns. But Mot always hated the one about how it was lost. His ancestor, one of the mightiest warriors of his clan, falling in battle due to the treachery of a dishonorable foe.
If this Craig spoke true, if he actually was a member of that hated clan, then there will be blood shed this day.
"Be careful, I think this man to be dangerous and a liar," Nme'an says to Mot as he briefly claps the big man's arm.
"Themp, Bi. Sevenstone, be ready. I expect things to get bad very soonly," the Knight Lieutenant whispers to his two nearby companions before shouting to the old highlander once again:
"What was their price? And what would you charge the three of us to make use of your boat?"
"Aye." Mot growls as he stalks forward, narrowed eyes never leaving the Tare'Owluf.
Nme’an noticed the impaled heads as they approached, but now no longer worried about taking an arrow to the knee, he notices among the heads of gnomes and dwarves are the heads of a few men. The heads of men have gouged out eyes, the dwarves have beards chopped clean off, and the gnomes have disturbing smiles cut into their cheeks. Three of the rotting, disfigured faces he recognizes them as knights but does not recall their names. Then he finds another, nearly missed among the gnome heads because of the smaller size. Grinning back at Nme’an is the halfling face of Sir Bast Thistletongue, Knight Major of the Order of the Dawnflower. He was the highest-ranking halfling within the order, and an inspiration to many of the smallfolk of Vyren. In combat, he distinguished his prowess with the bow, and was one of the few in the country to hit an arrow from a tree at three hundred feet while his mount ran at full tilt. Despite his skill, some within the order would jest at his mettle for choosing a ranged weapon over a sword. Not that the teasing bothered him, for he was always ready with a quip. When not honing his archery, Sir Thistletongue often retreated to the libraries of the castle. He could identify every plant and creature that grew in Vyren, seemed to know every hill and stream in the kingdom, and could regale listeners with a hundred tales of historic battles. A clever tactician, master archer, with biting wit and a winning smile for his friends -the farse of Bast’s smile displayed on the stake is a grotesque sight indeed.
Mot tramps down into the shallow pit, and pushes his way past the thicket of sharpened stakes. He passes the row of impaled heads of gnomes, dwarves, and a few men.
Olp, who stood gawping at the mountain of a man, follows the Casns, muttering something about “alone not”.
He slips through the wood spikes quickly and quietly. The kobold stands off to the side of Mot, warily watching the enormous man who now puffs his pipe.
Since getting soaked by the rain this afternoon, Nme’an had gotten used to the cold garments under his armor. But now, the chill returns, and he feels it down to his bones. Lightning flashes overhead, followed quickly by a booming thunder felt in the feet. He suddenly feels short of breath, as though someone had knocked the wind out of him. But even as his breathing recovers, he still feels a tightness in his neck. His attempts to clear his throat come out as wheezy, quiet rasps, and the knight realizes that his vocal cords are silent!
“Eff yoo could fit a hunndrid arses en dat boat, et still bea one boat!” Craig barks gruffly at the Knight Lieutenant. “No’ gonna yell et ye no longah, pointee-ear! Maek a good gehst an’ sit a spell liek yer smart frend teh Casns heer!” He jabs the stem of his pipe at Mot to make his point, and then takes a few more puffs. The rain threatens to put out the orange embers at any moment. Blue smoke and a wicked chuckle escape his lips as he regards the fellow highlander. “Ahm’a poo-et an’ Ah dinnae knoo et...”
“Teh Towah calls ‘eroes from all corners, et seems,” the Tare’Owluf says conversationally. He inclines his head to Ithalgol’s Keep, keeping his eye on the fuming Casns. “Callt me sistah, an’ Ah followed. T’at’s wat famlee doos, eh? Steck toogetah. Yoo an’ me, we Urlghain, we oonderstand…” a derisive glance flits to the Dawnflower knight. “T’ey doon’t. Neva weell…”
'A small lie to protect friends and be more prepared to combat a clear evil is met with immediate punishment?' Nme'an silently asks the heavens.
Nme'an nods silently to the butcher and slowly advances, following the path Mot had chosen a few moments before. When he has closed half the distance the silenced knight reaches out with his senses as he focuses on the stranger before him.
The mention of ‘traps’ makes Beorae worried for Shark, and she signals to the cat to stand still.
Beorae can just make out the thick speech of this Craig fellow as his voice carries over the ground.
Not quite sure what to do when Nme’an starts to move, and heeding his word of warning, Beorae attempts to roll away from the cover of the knight and slip behind a nearby tree.
The Knight Lieutenant has yet to sense a fouler soul. Craig Tare'Owluf the Twice-Slain is most certainly evil.
As his question to the heavens burns into his mind, memories follow of his squireship under Sir Montague Belarand. The devout Captain attended every Edification possible while in the city, would drag Nme'an with him to each sermon. When they camped on the road, Sir Montague would test Nme'an's knowledge of Sarenrae's holy text and the statutes of the knighthood. "We are held to higher standard than most," the Knight Captain would say, staring at the campfire, "and our faithfulness is rewarded with righteous power."
On another quest, Sir Montague and his squire accompanied other knights to end some banditry on the roads. They had found the hidden camp of the criminals without detection. Another squire suggested that they sneak up and slit their throats while they slept. It was Sir Lawdrake who gently explained that such a tactic would undermine the honor of a knight. "How would we be any better than they? No, we must follow our principles, even against untrustworthy brigands. We will wake them and offer a chance of surrender. If they decide to fight, we will not engage them until they have weapons in their hands. Secure their horses and surround the encampment." Squire Nme’an did little more than hold a handful of reins during this encounter, but nevertheless, the memory came to mind.
In light of the loss of his voice, Nme’an is well aware that Sarenrae is quick to forgive with earnest repentance. Thinking back, he knows that Sir Montague would respond to such a punishment with prayer and meditation on the holy texts. The Knight Lieutenant is unsure for how long he must do this. An hour, perhaps?
Now much closer to the Tare’Owluf, Mot can see a dark purple scar around the gigantic man’s neck, just below the jaw. The hairy arm that cradles the smoking pipe is huge; rippling, oversized muscles are covered with calloused skin made lumpy with heavy scarring. By comparison, Craig’s other arm looks shrunken and thin, but on any normal man it would still appear strong. The smaller arm ends with a strange hand -the fingers are fused into a mitt of flesh with only the thumb apart from the unfortunate deformity. The criss-cross scarring does not help the ugliness of his face, which presently cracks a crooked-toothed grin at the knight’s approach.
“Och, wahlcoom, Surr Knight! Ah’m shoor yoo’ll bea ‘appy t’ ‘ear t’at Ah gots one price fer me boat, no matter ‘ow many o’ yoo wannae use et…” He pushes himself off the wall of the cottage, straightening to his full height. The Tare’Owluf indeed stands a head taller than the Casns, an unnatural height for even a highlander. The heavy rain succeeds in extinguishing the smoking pipe, so the highlander empties it and pockets the pipe. He walks with the casual, ready stride of an experienced warrior, a few steps away from his house toward his chopping block. His unfriendly grin is spattered in the downpour as he squints back at Nme’an. “Ye gots frends awaitin’ fer ya t’ere,” his thinner arm points to the black keep, “an’ t’ere.” The mitt gestures lazily to the impaled heads. His hungry, eerie eye turns to Mot. “An’ yoo, Casns… well…” his broad shoulders shrug, “faet ‘as ‘er wey o’ brrengin’ our clans toogetah, eh? Liek a bloody loove storey, heheh. Yoo wunnae bea teh first Casns Ah killt...” He rubs dirty palms together with a clap. he bellows, his giant arm in a sweeping gesture to the chopping block. Light and thunder punctuate the dire price.
“Coome, meet yer end liek a man, in single combat! Or lie doown liek a lamb on me block. Yoo haave me werd t’at Ah’ll nae harm teh rest o’ yoo, an’ me boat es yers teh use.” His meaty, oversized hand wraps around the sword handle sticking out from over his shoulder. Metal drags against metal until a wide and long steel greatsword is held aloft in one hand in challenge. By the dark clouds overhead, it is easy to notice a magical gleam of light emanating from the enormous weapon. Bold runes mark the flat of the blade: CASNS.
“...even eff t’at one ‘ead bea mine! Ah cannae stop yoo from usin’ me boat when Ahm ded! Hahaha!” His unsettling eyes look ever more crazed with each passing moment. Craig Tare’Owluf raises the point of the huge sword to the three.
“Potion!” Mot feels the butt of Olp's spear jab him in the leg. “Drink potion!”
"Wea, wea are nootheng alahk." Mot growls as he stalks through the upturned spears. "Yoo aare nae heroo." The big warrior comes to a stop, mere feet from the hulking monster before him.
As the foul Urlghain continues, Mots hands grip his walking-weapon tighter and tighter until the shaft seems set to splinter. But the Casns is able to hold his fury for moments longer. Though as Tare'Owluf draws the ancestral blade Mots rage bubbles over until the warrior is nearly blinded with the blood-lust that runs in his veins.
Pointing with spear shaking in furious grasp the Casns warrior roars. "AN' THAT BELONGS TA MEA!"
Finally confirming his fears that this encounter would end in combat, Themp quickly moves towards Nme'an, cloak tightly held, as he draws his bow.
Beorae sees the situation quickly getting out of control and summons Shark to her side as Themp begins to move.
The giant of a man spreads both arms wide, the oversized limb effortlessly holding the heavy blade. “T’en coome an’ get et...” His maniacal laughter trails off when he sees a fire-haired half-elf and a white tiger bounding up behind the knight. Tare’Owluf raises an eyebrow before returning his attention to the Casns. He shifts his feet, and holds the greatsword up to a guarded position.
Mot is ready to spring forward to lay waste to the monster taunting him, when he feels the prodding of his smallest, newest companion. Looking down with fury in his eyes he hears Olps words, and somehow is able to understand the meaning behind them.
A small part of the big Highlander takes the advice to heart and internalizes the wisdom of the words. The Casns warrior takes a few deep breaths before fumbling with one hand at his belt. Grasping a potion he bites the cork out and chugs it, the whole while keeping an eye on the hulk waiting for him in the rain.
Nme'an continues towards the two highland warriors. Though he can barely make out either due to the speed he is progressing the intervening terrain, the Paladin can still sense Craig's darkness and says a short, silent prayer asking for the power to defend his friends and avenge his fellow knights.
Themp continues to rush among the grass.
Beorae rushes up behind Nme’an, Shark in tow. As she passes, she whispers urgently, “What’s going on?”, unaware of the paladin’s current vocal impairment.
Grimacing in fear, the kobold dutifully holds his wooden round shield to cover his entire body, so that his yellow eyes peer over the top and the point of the spear protrudes from the side. His spear arm is coiled and tense, ready to jab out from his defensive stance. Olp holds his position at the corner of the cottage.
Beorae takes in the monstrously scarred and deformed Urlghain, his ramshackle home, and the defensive perimeter around it. Judging by a few stumps on the lakeshore, it seems that Craig Tare’Owluf felled a few trees to make a clearing around his small patch of mud. The small rowboat tied to a post has two oars, and small barrel at the center. Beyond, teeming lake surface reflects back the grey from overhead. The greatsword that he holds in one hand glows as a torch might, quite similar to her Lumos spell. Below his sooty breastplate is a wide, thick leather belt that holds a quiver of arrows and a sheathed dagger in place. His longbow rests against the cottage, where he leaned to smoke moments ago. The big axe bites into the stump used as a chopping block.
Seeing the companions of Mot advance, the hulking Tare’Owluf sneers. “Me terrms was sengle coombat. Ah’ll maek no proomisses eff Ah fight a Casns, a knight, a pepsqueek lizzard, an’ a wee kitteh. Not t’at Ah cannae…” he snorts and hocks a glob of phlegm into the mud. Craig’s evil eye rests on the angry berserker as the last of his words spell doom for any who dare approach. “Ess moar aboot how meny ‘eads yoo wannae lose...”
“Not lizard!” shrieks Olp. “Dragon kind!” The shaft of his spear raps against the rim of his shield in outrage. “Big man Mot, you alone not. He makes trap. We kill him. As we.” The kobold nods with a determined look to the pipe-playing rover.
Nme'an comes to a halt just in range of the giant combatant and lets loose a shot from his bow.
for
Silently cheering under his breath as Nme'an's arrow strikes true, Themp keeps advancing under cover.
Eyes still on his hated foe, Mot raises his spear and points it's tip at Tare'Owluf, though it gently wavers as the warrior considers his foe. With his other hand he grasps at his belt once again, producing another potion to drink down.
Shark slips through the spikes without trouble. The grey cat takes a low stance next to Mot and bares his teeth with a deep growl.
Beorae moves up a little further, but stays on the outside of the spikes. The druidess concentrates on the beast of a man, scanning him for magical energies that might not yet be apparent.
The druidess knows instantly that there are magical auras within the range of her spell, but it will take a moment or two for that knowledge to come into focus.
The arrow sticks into the thick shoulder of the Tare’Owluf. “Och!” His gigantic form starts to move when he hears the menacing rumble from Shark’s throat. He hesitates, but his momentum is already forward. “Yoo t’enk yer clehvar wit’ yoor boow, Suur Knight! Et onleh means yoo git ter wotch yoor frendos die!”
With long, heavy strides, the mountain of a man quickly covers the ground between himself and Mot and Shark, shining greatsword held in front of him. A grimacing look to the big grey cat seems to hold his recklessness at bay, for now.
The huge blade arcs down to deliver a devastating cut to Mot. Failing to dodge the attack, the sword glances off Casns shoulder with a flicker of energy.
“Wot sorcery! Quet yoor drrenkin an’ fight me liek a man!” barks the hulking menace.
Mot's magical deflection of the awesome blow was the manifestation of a potion of Shield of Faith.
"Sorcery es raght! Ahm mahgeck naow!" Mot roars as he lowers his spear, pointing with his off hand a meaty finger right in Craig's face.
A bright flash of amber light shoots forth from the highlanders hand, casting harsh long shadows around the spiked yard. Laughing manically Mot shouts something about the gods being with him, but it's drowned out by the downpour.
Saying nothing, Nme'an gives the self proclaimed "Twice Slain" a firm "no" with a shake of his head then proceeds slowly forward as he readies his next arrow and fires again.
for
Beorae sees the glowing sword and realizes that separating the magic sword from the man who wields it might take longer than she’s willing to give. Right now, there are more important things to worry about. The druidess takes the now-familiar stance of summoning and begins a low chant in Druidic.
As soon as the big man swings at Mot and proves that he’s an enemy, Shark lunges with a full counterattack.
Finally catching up with Nme'an, Themp lets loose his own arrow, hoping the brute won't notice him.
Olp keeps a wide berth as he circles around to behind the Tare’Owluf. Still hunkered behind his shield, he extends a tentative jab at highland legs.
The stab misses completely.
The glowing, runic greatsword lashes out at Mot’s extended hand as he calls forth the bright light.
The towering highlander blinks at the light for a moment, but otherwise seems unaffected.
Nme’an’s arrow tinks off the warrior’s sturdy breastplate, and Craig does not seem to notice. His attention is on the lunging tiger. The dark-cloaked brute twists this way and that, dodging and letting his armor take the brunt of Shark’s claws and teeth. A final slash at his neck is desperately covered by his deformed hand, leaving long red angry lines along his thinner arm.
Arrow pierces his tree trunk of a leg, and he snaps his head up to look beyond the spiked barricade, both hands tightly grasping the handle of the mighty sword. That is when he hears the magical chants of the druidess and turns his unsettling eye to her. Craig takes a step back from Mot and the tiger and his huge hand yanks a dagger from its sheath while his deformed arm lets the heavy weapon drag in the dirt. “Och! Noone o’ t’at heer!” He hurls the dagger with great force and it spins over the wooden spikes, right at Beorae!
The dagger sticks deep into her darkwood shield. He raises the Casns blade once more, with an evil grin at Mot and Shark, eager for violence.
Mostly ignored by the towering Urlghain, Olp sees an opening when Craig makes the throw.
Thick forearm taking the brunt of the slash Mot growls with pain and drops his spear in the mud. With a blood-red fire burning in his eyes the Casns Highlander shrugs his heavy shoulders and clasps his own greatsword with his gnarly hands.
Pivoting on one leg he swings in a heavy lateral arc, roaring in righteous fury.