[Hider=A Return Home] Naomi sighed up at Beatrice and fluttered her eyelashes, to which the stoic woman had no retaliation; she stayed silent and just guided the young girl's horse along. "I would have liked to stay a little while longer." Naomi quipped coldly. "It was great fun to be in the capital." "War is coming, father wants you home." was what Beatrice ultimately replied with after a few minutes. "If you got hurt, he'd probably do something crazy like declare war on the rest of the country." "Well, I wouldn't get hurt- I've got my dagger, and I've got you. You're the best fighter there is, sis." "No. I was overcome at the grand tourney, and father still bests me. There are, without doubt, a handful of better swordsman in the land." "Not walking the streets of Nyhem there aren't." Beatrice didn't have a comeback to that quip and stayed silent, the approach to their home castle bringing the intimidating black walls into view. Beatrice seemed reassured at having made it home- even as Naomi seemed depressed. "...Back to my room, at the top of that damnable tower, to wait for father to marry me off." "Nonsense. Father wouldn't marry you off- you're far too valuable to him. I'm a more likely candidate as a wife-to-be than you." "...but you're so old." Beatrice lowered her head briefly, then raised it back to her prideful height. "...And you're just ripe for marriage, aren't you? Perhaps I should suggest the idea to father--" "You wouldn't!" Naomi hissed. "I don't know what I would and wouldn't do, I'm senile with age." Beatrice snapped back. Naomi blinked for a few moments, several seconds passing before she registered that as a joke from Beatrice. The girl's laughter was...plain. She had a simple laugh. One that didn't awaken or stir any feelings inside those who heard it, but its simpleness had an endearment to it- a natural shine. Beatrice smiled briefly, but soon raised her Blackwell-insigned-kerchief high into the air and waved it, flagging the gatekeepers and warranting the opening of the keep's impressive gates. This keep had been constructed to withstand the assault of dragons back when this land was plagued by them- it was, perhaps, one of the more intimidating pieces of architecture in Formaroth. This keep was now the Home to the Blackwells. [/hider] ------ [hider=Home; a formal description] Mercy is a larger castle city extending down the forested hillsides and towards the coastline. The metropolis is protected by a series of walls, having been built hundreds of years in advance of each other. Many of the internal walls have suffered greatly from time and dragon alike, but instead of being left with gaping holes instead have new work being done on them regularly to repair them to their original glory. The city is divided into a few different districts dominated by the way ruling dynasties have prioritized them. Very few buildings peek out over the menacing walls, with the outermost one being the thickest and the newest. Much water runs through these walls with aqueducts built-in beneath the top layers to provide water to the extensively wide population that drain into cisterns beneath the ground and flow out to the sea. However, one thing that does stand out is an alarming number of towers. Thicker, tougher towers that are a bit stout and have great width mark the cityscape. These structures are continuously being maintained. The area's central river snakes around the inner sections of the urban environment and is reinforced with large canal walls, having been built up with short wooden palisades in the event of an incursion. These tend to have rectangular holes sparingly cut into them. The bridges are reinforced with more metallic gilded plates on top of stone to create fire-resistant architectural integrity. Despite being separated by districts and walls of varying quality and age, the city retains its low architecture with a profuse stucco-like design that focuses on low columns and railings bordering everything. The rooftops are inaccessible due to the peaking and terracotta tiles of years past marking them, and in lower class areas, are known to be a rather frequent cause of death. However, wood was not a readily available building type contrary to the surrounding landscape due to the frequent dragon attacks in the past, though after the Blackwell Dragon War the forests around the keep have been cleared to make expansive fields around the keep and to use wood more liberally as a resource within the keep and lands. That being said, however, there are many city streets which do retain signature scorchmarks from prior battles. The worst scar on the city perhaps would be the main avenue where many market vendors and traders move to streamline their mercantile processes but end up being the primary target for attacks. However in past generations, the city has undergone construction of safe rooms and subterranean tunnels which are used as checkpoints intermittently, and have gone through fortifications and expansions by the Blackwells when they assumed control of the keep. The castle itself is magnificently appointed on the zenith of the hillside, having itself another wall around it but with taller towers more closely placed together to create a fence-like atmosphere on the approach. The castle is wide and spread across the hilltop like an acropolis, with the main keep being at the highest point but only a few stories tall with large spires and spikes on the rooftop. Several gardens and atriums are sprinkled around, with the atriums doubling as a defensive front with iron lattice work overtop to allow shots through. Regardless of the lack of extreme height or roof peaking, the fortress has a number of buttresses supporting the outer walls. The buttresses have layered color schemes and the entire estate tends to lean towards red and orange hues, being the colors of the family crest. The many archways show vaulted ceilings and the railings are more often metal than they are wooden and have solid, opaque shutters that fold around the columns and can be unlocked in case of attack. A series of cheiroballistas and onagers mark the castle grounds and roof, most seeming to have been repaired and refurbished recently if not built not too long ago. [Credit for description goes to an associate of mine off-guild, for he has a mind for architecture that I do not] [/hider] ------ [hider=A family recconected] "Tell me of your trip, little one." Drevala's voice was soft and full of adoration for the girl she sat before. They had met together immediately once Naomi's return had been announced, and the two had been together every since. Beatrice had left Naomi to return to their father, and also to confer with their brother about the ordeals of Nyhem. "Well..." Naomi chewed her lip. "It was...strange, and fantastic, all at once! The actual negotiations were...ugh...so tense, it was very difficult to...stay calm. I was excited and jittery the whole time, and I think more than a few of the gentlemen there were discomforted that I, a mere girl of all people, were speaking with such weight." "Well Naomi, I'd be intimidated- father has been very...vocal to the other lords about how he cherishes you, and I'm sure some felt that if they insulted you he'd be angry." "Maybe..Just..." the young girl sighed. "I almost wish he hadn't done that, you know?..On the ride back Beatrice and I talked about marriages- naturally I scoffed at the concept and brushed it off- but now that I've had time to think about it, should there ever be a man I do wish to wed, father's approval will be...difficult to get." she paused there, then looked at Drevala who's smile seemed to irritate the girl. "Not that I'm intending to get married anytime soon! Just...Think like brother!" she deflected as if this were better than her musings of marriage. "Think of the allies and strengths we could garner!" She seemed proud to have made the jump to such a complex topic. "Well, I for one think that Eli is daft and only concerned with his little plots and intrigues. I think that you, my dear flower, should focus on more...courtly things, try to be a little lady." "Ugh...Not this again- look, Bee and Dad both agree that I should just be me. Why do you and Eli insist I behave...'lady-like'..?" Drevala's smile tilted into a playful smirk as she said her response; "So you can get married." Naomi groaned and fell back into her bed, rubbing her eyes. "I confide in you, you never let me live it down. Why do I even bother." she said childishly. "I'll just have to start keeping secrets like the rest of you." "Oh, come now! It was only a jest, dear flower." Drevala laughed while rising up and moving to the window of the low tower Naomi's room was rested in. "I'm going to go for a little flight, stretch my legs some. I'll be back shortly, dear flower." Drevala said to the young girl on the bed and got only a wave for a response, before the woman leapt through the window and, in a moment's notice, changed shape into the familiar great falcon she employed, and flew away. "....Telling me to act like a lady, bah!...Why doesn't //she// get married then, miss 'be a lady'..." Naomi muttered to herself a few moments after the woman's flight. --- "Beatrice, welcome home. I trust all was well?" Eli asked as he and Beatrice stood in the war room of the castle, where a map of Formaroth was inlaid upon a grand table and people consistently moved into the room to move a figure on its surface, or to shift the position of an army displayed. It was a very well guarded room, with soldiers bearing blackened armor- the Dragon-Guard of Mercy- at its perimeter and entrances. Eli himself was lording over the map, poring over its resources and information, and he had neglected to look up to Beatrice as he drummed his fingers on the map's surface. "Duncan is a snake, the nation is splitting, and war is coming." "Well we already knew that. Anything new?" "The magister is an incredibly friendly lass." Beatrice's stoicism shifted into a comfortable slackness, as she finally began to unwind and allow herself to speak simply. "Took Naomi and I around the town, basically gave us a grand tour of the place, though I couldn't really find it in me to trust anyone. Naomi enjoyed herself." Eli paused and lifted his eyes to Beatrice, taking a moment to hid his irritation; he loved his sisters, every one, but Beatrice could never...get to the parts he wanted without a bit of wind-around, and he blamed the fact she grew up with mercenaries. Damnable storytellers, the lot of them. He then cleared his throat. "Beatrice, is there anything that isn't just a social call?" He clarified. "Eh...The negotiations went as you've already heard, De Reimer and Manshrew will be at war soon, may already be- I haven't heard anything on the way back though." Eli nods and stares back at the board. He was tense, on edge, and he had the familiar glare of analytical prowess in his eyes that Beatrice had come to acknowledge as 'He's up to something'. She studied him for a few seconds, before moving away. "I need to rest. I'll be in my quarters. I'll visit father when I'm.." she struggled for the word. "Refreshed." Eli waved the woman away and grit his teeth. Once she was away he slammed a fist down on the table. "Damn it all, I need something to work with!" he growled, staring at the board. The guards of the room retained a stoic silence, sharing a glance before reaffirming themselves. [/hider] ------ [hider=No Mercy] The man was grim and scarred, a hideous scar crossing down his eye. He was tall, and his head was bare and bald. His air was stern and unforgiving, and his movements short and efficient. He was a man of Uzgob through and through, and his purpose was dark and unforgivable. He was wearing simple garb, and he stood here in the dark with a singular purpose. He extended a hand out and paused with it halfway extended towards the sleeping face of Emilia Blackwell. The woman was pale and cold, and was frequently sick. This man was Aashiq Fadil, and he carried with him a vicious scimitar at his hip. He had made no noise upon entering this bedroom, and had been extra cautious in doing so. This woman wasn't his target, this woman would've been dead already if she were. Aashiq Fadil was a patient man, and he had no reason to rush this. He pulled his hand back and moved away from the bed with silent steps. He cast a gaze down across the room to the raw silence of the garden Giles Blackwell spent most of his time in, and Aashiq couldn't help but feel a dry sort of confusion; why keep a garden and let nothing grow? He didn't let that thought linger however, and he made a gesture to the two men dressed similarly to him who were by the door to the bedroom. Getting in here had been a pain in the ass and patience was the only virtue they now needed to complete their grim task. Aashiq faded into the shadows opposing the garden's entrance, and waited. A few minutes later, a servant stepped through the door of the bedroom in silence almost equalling the same eerie quietness employed by Aashiq and his men. However, the servant's silence was soon made permanant by the two men by the door moving forward simultaneously. There was no flash of steel as a blade, smeared in ash to avoid reflecting light, swiftly sliced the servant's throat from ear to ear, his other hand clamped viciously over the servant's throat to enforce silence. The second dark man grabbed the servant's tray as his body jerked and fell limp, so that its contents didn't spill or clatter to the ground. It was a brutal, efficient, process. Aashiq allowed himself a cruel smirk- this was too easy. He took the tray from the other man and swiftly poured the chalice upon it's contents silently onto the dead servant's shirt to deaden the sound and empty the chalice. Then, from his hip, Aashiq lifted a flask and quietly poured its contents into the chalice, and placed it back upon the tray. Then his careful steps took him silently towards the entryway of the garden, towards the meditating Giles Blackwell, as his two shadows moved cautiously with him. --- Eli Blackwell pulled away from the war table and rubbed his eyes. He'd been here for hours struggling to gain the same grasp his father did over the nation's militaries and forces, and his mind had begun to grow weary from the excess work Eli put it through; planning, plotting, strategizing, stewarding... He simply needed to stop exhausting himself, because soon all this work would have purpose. At least, that's what he told himself. He had already begun the process of militarizing the economy and industry, sent missives out for weapons and armor to be crafted in high quantity and for the militia to begin being drafted and trained. Even if the army wasn't needed, an arms trade was- and if the Blackwells didn't get involved in the war, then if Eli had anything to do with it they'd grow rich from it. He began to walk from the war room towards the path that most easily lead to his quarters, and as he opened the door and stepped out his ears registered sounds that hadn't been heard in...some time. The clashing of blades in an earnest fight. In an instant Eli's hand was upon the hilt of the elegant rapier he had crafted for himself and that he carried. Longswords were brutish and crude for his tastes, so the elegance of the thin bladed weapon was much more in his favor. When he emerged into the hall his eyes quickly took in the scene before him- the Dragonguard were trying, with moderate success, to repel dark-clad assailants. Eli relaxed considerably however, and watched the scene with enamored analysis. A Dragonguard was deflecting a scimitar with his thick shield, and kicking the lightly clad man in the knee to sway him, before slashing his longsword down at him. The scimitar-wielding man rolled aside to avoid the longsword and slashed viciously at the armour'd guard's flank, his weapon biting through the lighter leather of the underarm and slicing through the guard's shoulder. The guard yelled in anger and pain, and Eli stepped back as more guards rushed from inside the war room out, now that the combat sounds were able to permeate the sound-proofed room via the open door. And in a matter of moments the dark clad assailants were overwhelmed and butchered by the dragonguard, though not without their own losses. Eli strode forward once the combat was over with and kicked the thinly-clad assailants onto their backs, to study them. "...Damn it all, I never expected Manshrew of all people to make a try at my life." Eli muttered as he eyed the Uzgob insignia in one of the men's hands. "Milord, soldiers have been sent to the king and princesses, though I fear the dispatch may be too late." spoke the commander of the Dragonguard, Garret Hattersby, as Eli observed the dead. "The tardiness of the dispatch isn't your fault, who knows how long these bastards were creeping down here." Eli cautioned. "I fear more for the lives of these assassins than I do my siblings, commander." Eli then rose with a smirk. "They dared to attack us in our own home- ha!" Eli's grim mirth was cut short as one of the guards who had sustained wounds let out a groan and swayed over, froth forming at his mouth as he seemed to lose strength and fall limp. Eli stared for a few seconds. "Get to Naomi, I'll check on father myself. Be wary of poison." and with that the two men rushed off in separate directions, even as other guards began to sound the alert and move to their ordered positions. However, moments before this... --- Beatrice was sitting in her room, a room positioned quite near to the entrance of the castle itself as opposed to further back. Beatrice had insisted upon it, stating that 'should the keep be in danger I'd rather be close to the fighting than trapped behind my walls'. She had finally gotten out of her armor, a lengthy process indeed for the knight who lacks a squire. Platemail takes two to put on and remove with any efficiency, though Beatrice had grown accustomed to taking the lengthy time it required to don and doff her armour. And she had taken the time to do so, leaving her wearing a simple tunic with trousers, of finer make than peasants usually wear due to her being the princess of Alenius, and adorned with the Blackwell crest on her shoulders, but otherwise it was a bland and simple outfit- the kind of the thing she preferred. The woman stared down at her armor, which she left resting on the floor beside her bed. "...I'll have need of you soon, for more than just show." she muttered as she flexed her hands into fists, then let them fall loose again. "..I don't...like..this." she elaborated to herself. "Duncan, father, Manshrew...It's...a headache. I don't trust Duncan, but I also don't trust Manshrew, and I don't know what father has planned.." She shut her eyes and breathed in deeply. "You're a soldier Blackwell, you get the job done regardless of what the job is." She reassured herself. "Get over yourself, they talked circles around you, you'll just crush them." she hugged herself for a moment, allowing herself a brief moment of weakness. Right as her door was violently thrown inward and a man rushed her with a short spear. Beatrice's eyed widened for a moment, then time seemed to freeze in her head. The man had a spear in hand, and was rushing her. She had no weapon or armor. He was wearing dark clothing, no markings or distinguishing emblems. An assassin. The spear gave him a few extra feet of reach, and he had the advantage of rushing her whilst she was sitting. The steel was dulled with ash, and he moved with very little noise. Everything was so incredibly slow to Beatrice as she saw the man plant his feet and throw the spear at her from those few feet away. She let the air leave her body and just... fell back as the spear left his hands. She kept her arms crossed over her chest and fell back as the spear flew through the air towards her. She couldn't fall back fast enough to avoid its tip, and she knew that as she watched everything happen so slowly, as if she were watching from outside of her own body. She watched her arms suddenly uncross and fly upwards, catching the spear just behind the head as it flew towards her chest, and knock the weapon up- deflecting it off its mark. Then she was back in her body as her back hit the bed and the spear sailed past her, and she looked down as the man drew a sword and rushed her. She lifted her legs and kicked his arm as he swung the sword down, deflecting his blow away, before leaping to her feet and ducking the next swing he tried- only to catch his knee in her chest and have the wind driven from her. However she wrapped an arm around his leg as it hit her chest, and dropped to her own as she swung the man around. Beatrice was a powerful woman, of brutish strength and muscle. She whirled the man around by his leg and slammed him down into the ground with a sickening smack as his body smashed into the stone floor. Then she sucked in a breath and, with the speed of a practiced grappler, shifted over his body and pinned him down. Then as the man struggled beneath her, dropping the sword and clawing at the dagger at his hip, Beatrice wrapped her hands around his throat and... with a powerful squeeze. crushed the life from this man's body, beneath her, her body stopping him from drawing the dagger at his hip that might have saved his life. And in a few minutes, after his body stopped jerking, Beatrice panted lightly and rose up, kicking the man in the side. She never even noticed the Dragonguards standing in her doorway. --- Naomi was laying in her bed, resting from the journey. Drevala would be back soon, and when she returned Naomi intended to, in earnest, ask the woman about marriage and what she should do about it. It was a rather sore subject for Naomi, because she didn't wish to get married, but she knew that if no suitors appeared she'd likely end up married off for politics like Eli suggests. But she didn't //know// anyone! How could she choose a husband if her father scared them all off, or did things in secret like he was prone to do? It just...made her anxious. She wished Drevala were here, Drevala always made things sound so simple... "Ugh." She sat up with a grunt and rubbed her eyes, once more. She looked around her room in a sort of desparation, as if hoping something- anything- existed to distract her when she knew, for a fact, there was nothing in this room she didn't already know and thus would gain no entertainment from it. However, as she glanced about, she noticed something of interest to her- Drevala had left her spear leaning against the wall when she took flight! Naomi stood up and dusted herself off, before walking over to the window and gazing out of it. She could see Drevala flying about, though why she was flying so close to the castle Naomi couldn't guess. She then looked down and about and saw the Dragonguard, of all things, rushing about. "Now why would they be in a hurry..?" She mumbled, before tensing up. She heard the door behind her creak open. She instantly grabbed Drevala's spear and whirled about as two dark clad men stepped into her room. "Who are you? Why are you here? Don't you know it's rude to walk in on a woman's room without knocking?!" She attempted to sound fierce but came off more...squeaky and unsure. The two men spaced themselves out, and one levelled a crossbow at her. "Manshrew sends his regards." said the man with the crossbow in a rough voice, even as his compatriot drew a wicked axe from his hip and slammed the door closed, bracing it with his body. Naomi shuddered at the sight and looked back at the window, before looking at the men. "W-Wait, I surrender." She lowered the spear. "Shame we came to kill you then." Said the man with the crossbow, seconds before pulling the trigger and launching the quarrel at Naomi. The girl used those few seconds to try and throw herself aside, letting out a scream, but that only caused the bolt to miss its mark and hit her in the stomach rather than chest. The girl fell heavily against the stone floor, the spear falling at her side. She felt a burning sensation from the wound, felt blood welling up, felt immeasurable pain- things she'd never felt before, and she just screamed in agony and pain as she spasmed in her pain, useless and incapable of handling it. She wasn't trained for this, this was..horrible...and blackness threatened to overwhelm her. A voice in her head screamed. Beatrice's warnings echoed in her head. So the girl sat there and panted heavily, trying to keep her eyes open, desparately clinging to consciousness. She looked up at the man, pain clouding her eyes, as he loaded another bolt to his crossbow. "Out the window once she's dead?" "Aye, Aashiq'll probably be done with the Old Man and we can meet back up at the meeting spot." the man with the crossbow said idly, levelling the crossbow at the girl on the floor. Naomi's breathing sped up again, and blood spilled from her side onto the floor, pooling underneath her still form. She managed to move her hand to the dirk she kept on her thigh, and gripped its handle. She wasn't...sure...what she was going to do at all, but she kept thinking about Beatrice and how she said to 'Keep on fighting even if you're about to die'. But Naomi would never have to fight, because as soon as she started to pull the dirk from its sheath a hideous screech echoed through the room-- And a falcon slammed into the man with the crossbow, tearing his eyes and face with vicious jabs from its beak, its talons raking across the man's throat and clawing down its face in a brutal flurry. The man recoiled back, fired the crossbow blindly, as he screamed in pain and agony, blood gurgling from the slashes in his throat as his eyes were destroyed and his face rendered into a bloody visage. The bolt clanged against the stone wall and shattered, its ashy head and shaft falling next to Naomi whose attention was fully enraptured by the bird protector who flew through the window- her sister. The man with the crossbow fell to the ground clutching at his throat as the bird shifted through the air, changing shape even as it carried itself through the air. The man bracing the door immediately moved from the door and rushed towards Naomi, raising his axe, as the shapeshifter took these precious few seconds to change forms. Naomi drew her dirk weakly and rolled onto her back, holding the dirk out towards the man and his axe as she breathed frantically and pain overwhelmed her, drove her to that brink of unconsciousness she was so afraid of. She was more afraid of closing her eyes than she was of this man's axe- something Beatrice would be proud of. As the man neared the girl, who was feebly defending herself, he kicked the dirk from her hands and immediately tried to bring the axe down at her, only to find himself thrown against the wall violently as a powerful growl resounded around the room. The falcon had turned into a fully grown wolf, whose body had leapt onto the man's and pressed him into the wall. The wolf's snout was bloodied and snapped viciously shut against the man's shoulder, tearing into his muscle and bone with a crushing bite. The man dropped his axe and yelled in pain, before grabbing ahold of the wolf's fur with his other hand and, with a surge of strength, dove towards the window... and tumbled out of it, wolf and all. Naomi stared at the window in horror, and the few seconds that passed felt like an eternity. A few more eternities passed, and the girl's eyes grew very heavy, oh so very heavy. She was beginning to close them as another eagle soared into her room, and as they fell shut she saw the outline of Drevala glowing brightly with power... and her sleep didn't feel so heavy anymore, it felt more...natural. That glow was soothing, and knowing that Drevala was there, glowing and protecting her, Naomi almost felt...unhurt as she went numb and drifted to sleep. --- Drevala panted heavily, blood coating her hands, face, neck, and legs. She had changed back into a human just a few seconds ago, and was now pressing her hands, glowing with power, against Naomi's side. "Damn it! No...No...Flower come on, don't do this..." she hissed, as she recalled all she knew of restorative magics. And as she pumped what power she could into the girl, and pulled the bolt from her side, she could tell instantly she was keeping the girl alive. Her wound was stitching closed, but the blood loss was still immense. She could keep the girl's heartbeat low, and keep her alive, but Naomi would be bedridden for...days, if not weeks. A sigh of relief fell from her lips, even as Dragonguard filled the room. "Princess!" Garret yelled when he entered the room, and then averted his eyes at the sight of Drevala's form healing Naomi- Drevala never could keep clothes on when she shifted so many times. "She'll live." Drevala barked, a Dragonguard throwing a cloak about her shoulders. "They use poison, Drevala-" Drevala caught him off with a growl of frustration. "Bring me more healers then!" She screamed at the man, who rushed out to go get the castle's healers. "I'll keep you alive flower, don't worry, I've got you.." she whispered, moving Naomi to the bed and out of the pool of her own blood. "I've got you..." --- Giles reached his hand out for the chalice presented to him. It was the usual time he requested a drink and it had become habit for the servants to send it to him unbeckoned. He brought the chalice to his lips and... paused. He inhaled once, before calmly pouring the drink out beside him. "You should've realized I only drink water before you tried to poison me with wine." He said calmly, rising to his feet. He heard the unmistakable hiss of steel clearing a scabbard behind him as he did so, and he turned his head back to observe the scene behind him. Aashiq Fadil had drawn his wicked scimitar and was striking the blade at the rising old man. Giles nimbly rolled aside and rose to a knee in the same movement, avoiding the strike as he turned his body to face his assailant. The two other men both moved forward, one drawing his ashen dagger and the other raising a shortened spear. The Old Man smiled, and this was by no means a pleasant smile. "Only three? Whoever sent you underestimates me." "Manshrew sends his regards." Aashiq hissed out to the old man as he sized his opponent up. Age hadn't slowed him down a beat, and he hadn't anticipated the Old Man not drinking wine. Giles scoffed at those words. "Of course he does. First the man with the spear will die, then the man with the knife, then I'll gut you with your own sword." The absolute certainty with which Giles Blackwell said these things was enough to make any man pause and contemplate his choices, but Aashiq was here to do a job and he rushed the kneeling man with his blade. Giles rose up, moving into the range of the strike rather than out of its reach, and extended his hand out to grab Aashiq by the wrist on the downswing, rending the strike useless. Giles then carried forward and drove his shoulder into the tall man's chest, and swept a foot underneath Aashiq's legs to cause him to lose balance and throw him to the floor- Then Giles released him and kept rushing forward, leaving the assassin on the ground as Giles drew the thick bladed dirk from his hip- and the first thing Aashiq noticed was the blade's material; it wasn't metal, not at all. It was black, and thick, and almost glassy. Aashiq leapt to his feet as his two companions both rushed Giles together, trying to overwhelm him. The man with the dagger closed in and rapidly slashed at Giles, moving in a circle around him, as his companion used the little length his spear offered to stab at Giles from the sides. Aashiq had only just reached his feet as the clash occured, and as he turned to fully face the fight he had to pause at what he witnessed. He saw the spear being thrust at Giles, and the Old Man suddenly spiral down the spear's length, grabbing it with his free hand and jerking it towards the man with the dagger to create some space. Then, as the man with the dagger had to move around the spear, Giles turned his head and flicked his wrist, throwing the dirk into the man holding onto the spear's throat- and with the sudden limpness in the man's body, Giles jerked the spear forward and impaled the man with the ashen dagger through his chest, and drove the spear down into the grey dirt of his garden, bending the man's body down to the ground with the haft as he grabbed at it and struggled in futility. He'd die moments later, but for now he was experiencing immasureable torment. Giles then lifted his head and stared at Aashiq. Giles watched as Aashiq regripped his scimitar and moved cautiously in a circle- and Giles immediately recognized from the way Aashiq carried himself that he was on a calibre completely different from these other assassins. Giles moved away from the blood-gurgling man impaled into the ground, and cleared the scabbard on his broadsword, before fully drawing the blade. He moved until it was he who was blocking the only entrance to the garden, and Aashiq was trapped inside. "Manshrew sent you?" He asked in the cold, to-the-point, manner he was known for. "Yes. Said it was comeuppance for siding against him in the civil war." Aashiq hissed out. "Shame. I'll have to kill him now." And with these words concluded, the two swordsman clashed- broadsword on scimitar. Aashiq rushed Giles and performed a feinting slice, which Giles saw through, and arced his wicked blade towards Giles' stomach- only to have the unyieldingly thick blade of the broadsword interposed and blocking his strike. His scimitar bounced off the heavier blade, and with a whirl Aashiq slashed at Giles' head. Giles ducked however, the scimitar sailing over his head, and with a grunt drove the tip of the broadsword forwards in a fast thrust- making use of his weapon's superior length and weight. Aashiq had to backpedal and catch the broadsword with his cross-hilt to turn the blade aside, and he turned the same motion into another momentum-building twirl of the sword. Aashiq's next strike was at Giles' extended arm, but Giles twisted his wrist and retracted his arm, catching the scimitar on the blade of his sword once more. Giles then swung his sword up, deflecting the lighter scimitar away with ease and forcing an opening, which he capitalized upon by closing the distance as Aashiq backpedalled and slashing his blade diagonally across Aashiq's chest. The slice was shallow, though Aashiq had difficulty telling if it was because he was fast enough to escape the brunt, or if the Old Man had pulled his punches, metaphorically speaking. Blood began to spill in sparse amounts down his chest, beneath his dark clothes. Aashiq knew the blow wasn't fatal or even debilitating, but with time the blood loss would...become troublesome. He needed to win now if he was going to win at all. So he planted his feet, and rather than retreating and striking he began to retaliate and counterattack. His flurry assaulted Giles quickly, striking in a dozen places in rapid succession, but Giles seemed to be able to interperet Aashiq's movements and expertly get his broadswords's weight in the way of the strikes, or just outright maneuver his body out of the way. By this point in the fight, a handful of Dragonguard have rushed the garden and halted, not wishing to intervene in the fight. Emilia stood in the back, a fervor overcoming her, and she fainted momentarily and was returned to her bed. Aashiq panted heavily, retreating back from Giles with caution. He was cornered now, and they had made a show of watching the fight! He spat blood onto the ground, the cut on his chest woresening with his movements- becoming agitated and bleeding more. His limbs felt heavy after so much exertion, so much frantic movement. his clothes stuck to his body with blood and sweat, and Giles Blackwell had stood his ground and not even broken a sweat yet. "You have two options. I kill you with your sword, or you kill yourself with your sword. Which do you pick, assassin?" Giles offered as he hefted his blade and assumed a stance that was not unlike a scorpion poised to strike. "Death to the blackwells!" Aashiq shouted, hoping his companions had, at least, killed one of the children. He then rushed Giles and did a wild assault- Giles blocked every strike with ease, only needing to keep to his concise stance and telegraph Aashiq's movements. He was growing wild however, losing control, and that was always dangerous. That meant he would be less skilled and more desparate, meaning there would be less refinement to the strikes. More unpredictability. Giles gave ground to the whirling scimitar, but then a lever seemed to flip and suddenly one of Aashiq's fluid strikes was halted in its place, and locked there. Giles had caught the blade against his crosshilt and suddenly twisted his arm, locking the scimitar in place with the blade and crosshilt, and continued to twist his arm as he spun in and grabbed Aashiq's sword-arm with his free hand. A violent twist sent the Scimitar to the floor- and Giles dropped his sword as well, curling his hand into a calloused fist, and slammed a punch straight into Aashiq's throat. Aashiq fell back onto the ground in a heavy thud, choking and struggling to get air through his crushed throat. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them of pain, and the last thing he saw was Giles lifting his scimitar and slashing it down at Aashiq. "Death's no stranger." [/hider] ------ [hider=Dragons were hardly as big an issue as this!] "I'll burn him. I'll burn him on a gods-be-damned stake for what he's done." Giles hissed between clenched teeth. "Father, please, calm yourself." Drevala said in a weak voice, exhausted from caring for the bedridden, bandaged, healing girl she was beside. Giles looked down at his wounded, unresponsive, daughter. "He attacked us in our own home, our very keep, and hurt my little flower." Giles said, closing his eyes, visibly shaking in rage. "I'll salt his lands, Drevala, I'll poison his rivers, I'll crush his castles beneath my heel like the bug he is." "Manshrew is mounting an army for a civil war and our alliance is tenuous at best, it's not going to last once conflict starts." Eli said calmly. "If we're to attack Manshrew, we'll need a larger army than what we have." "Conscript from the villages and towns, then. Bolster our ranks. Get the militia in training while the conflict is far from our borders. We'll bide our time. We'll bide our time, wait for him to tire himself out, then we'll burn him." Giles said in a venomous tone. "I have letters to write." Eli shut his eyes to hide the excitement in his eyes. This was exactly the push he needed to get his plans in action. [/hider] Written by [@PhoenixWhite]