The fight was now turning in favor of the humans. If the dryads had opted to destroy the defenders in detail rather than rushing for the manor house it might have been different, but their alien and insane focus on breeching the walls had given the defenders time to regroup. 'In favor of' didn't mean the humans were having it all their own way however. Even as Camilla watched a grizzled looking older man had his head snapped to an unnatural angle by a blow of a bough that whipped hard enough to send a spray of dead leaves after the fallen soldier. Another soldier, a young man with freckles and red hair tripped on the body and on of the dryads gleeful leaped atop the youth and plunged its wicked branch arms down into the boys guts, the red tips coming away bloody and steaming in the crisp winter air. Camilla fired the pistol she had managed to reload into the things face by way of avenging the fallen. The wood of the things head splintered but its glowing green eyes didn't dim. An older woman screaming in pain and loss swung an oil lamp two handed to crash down on the things back with a shattering scream of glass and a whoosh of oil igniting. The dryad screamed and rushed off into the night, wreathed in smoke, blazing and burning as it went.

"We have to get inside before they get to the Graf," Camilla declared, eyes darting around for the nearest gate. The gatehouse, two pillars of stone with vast wrought iron doors was a mass of struggling men and hissing thrashing dryads.

"We will haf te fight our wae every step..." Thor began to object, but Camilla was already thrusting her mostly useless rapier back into its scabbard.

"Sollevami," she said and ran at Cydric. The big mercenary dropped his own sword and made a stirrup of his hands. Camilla stepped into it and leaped upwards as Cydric uncoiled his vast leg muscles hurling her ten feet into the air and over the wall. She tumbled in a full circle, caught the edge of the wall and landed on her belly an arm reached down towards her companions. Cydric ran at the wall grabbing her arm as he leaped. Cydric outweighed Camilla by nearly a hundred pounds, but she dropped over the far side, her dead weight allowing the mercenary to keep is momentum till he reached the top and could grasp the top of the wall.

"Oh aye," Gunir groused disgustedly, "but what about thaes of us tha no be circus freaks?" The drawven accent on 'freaks' made it sound like frakes which made Camilla snicker.

"Got any rope?" Cydric asked with a meaningful look at the coil of heavy dwarven cord that hung from his belt.

"Aye ya'right," the dwarf grudgingly allowed and hurled the cord up to Cydric who quickly made it fast around a wrought iron spike. Leaving the dwarves to their slower progress, the two humans dropped into the garden of the manor house. Bodies of livered guardsmen, most only partially dressed and indifferently armed lay steaming in the chill, their bodies bruised and torn by thorny arms. Piles of dead timber which had once been dryads were scattered around too, though they had clearly had the better of the exchange. A broken window winked jagged glass and the sounds of fighting could be heard from further in the house. A vine from a nearby tree reared back and whipped at Camillia, her rapier hissed free of her scabbard and severed the questing vine neatly. Other plants began to shiver and grow agitated.

"Into the house," she called and jumped through the window, crunching broken glass beneath her feet. They were in a large parlor that must have also served as a ball room. A servant lay in the corner in a pile of blood and bloody tracks lead out one of the side doors. Camilla followed, though what use her rapier was likely to be was open to question. Through the door was a scene of chaos. A score of dryads were attempting to surge up an ornate stair case that lead to the upper and private areas of the manor. The climbed over each others like spiders, spilling up over the elaborate banisters like the surf rushing up a channel. At the top of the stairwell, wearing a cotton nightgown with pink roses embodied on it, was three hundred angry porcine pounds of the Gräfin of Dounkebruk, swinging an ancient battle axe in a way that would have made any orcish chieftain jealous. Her jowly face was white with fury as she hacked and chopped any of the dryads that tried to reach the landing. Piles of dead wood were aiding her in her task but for all her fury it was obvious that within a few more seconds the climbing dryads would be able to flank her and reach the second story. 

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