[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/9SpAqdN.png[/img] [b][h3]B A T T L E: T H E N A S H O R N[/h3][/b] [b] Interacting with The Nashorn [@Force and Fury][/b] [/center] [hr] East of the beach, Osanna found a measure of peace tucked under the protective edge of an overturned wagon. She took a long draw from her waterskin, letting go of the magic hiding her now that she had a physical barrier, and started to draw. There was plenty to draw from—the thunder of the waves, the clash of steel, even the grunting effort of bodies. Arcane was little aid with the sky so dark, but that would only prove to her advantage when Osanna needed to hide again. She closed her eyes. Here, protected, the battle felt far off, just a roar of noise and movement in the background. In this relative still, she began to pray, her lips moving in silent words to the Death God, words meant for no mortal ears. In her supplication, she found respite from anger and frustration and rest for her body after the exertion of the battle so far. There was much to be thankful for. Osanna was alive, unharmed, and now, once more filled with what power she could command. It was time to stop playing soldier and start acting like the assassin she had spent her life training to be. The shadows were both her best defense and her weapon of choice. Now, she would use them. Osanna slipped out of her makeshift shelter and into the night, drawing her cloak around her armor and the hood over her head to hide the glints of metal and skin. She would need to be conservative with what magic she had. The rain-slick forms of bodies still thrashed in bloody effort to the west, but much closer, Osanna watched a beam of light brighten Sir Rodric’s face before hitting his opponent in the chest. The mountain of a man kept his feet, and Rodric, by contrast, looked shaken. Osanna moved in to lend him aid. Osanna slipped in behind the brute while his back was turned, but some minuscule noise must have given away her approach and without the covering of shadows, he easily repelled her first blow. Deftly, she dropped back, disappearing from sight as a knight charged in from the other side. She reevaluated the opponent, watching closely as he deflected the knight's arrows and sent them flying back towards him. This was not going to be a simple encounter. “Esheran, empower me,” she whispered, moving around her opponent under the cover of night and magic. With him reeling from Rodric’s attack, she pressed the advantage, raising her sword to pierce through the eye open behind the slit in his helm. She felt no remorse for the death of this man. He would go to Echeran, be judged and kept. The blade went in, but not as deeply as Osanna had intended, and the Nashorn shoved her away, roaring as she danced back out of harm’s way. Before she could catch her breath, before she could call for the magic to hide her or put some distance between herself and this beast, he attacked. Osanna threw up her sword to block the mighty blow, but it wouldn’t be enough—couldn’t be enough. She closed her eyes, knowing calm in her core, but the blow never came. When Osanna looked again, the Nashorn’s charge had ended in a black-crystal replica of her that shattered even as she watched, the fragments turning to smoke and then dissolving into so much air. Praise Echeran. She did not stop to taunt the Nashorn but let the night swallow her and danced away while he raged at the spot where she had once been. Osanna needed a new plan. Her allies were being drawn away by more adversaries, and her technique of slowly weakening a larger opponent through blood loss was not applicable given the Nashorn’s armor. Thank Echeran, she had more than one trick up her sleeve. Instead of going again for a full-on attack, she opened the sealed container of poison darts at her hip and readied herself for a series of glancing blows aimed only at the joints and straps of the juggernaut’s armor. The darts rose like wasps behind her, silent for their lack of wings, and when she directed them at the opening she’d created at his shoulder, he bowled through them as though they were nothing. Heat crackled along Osanna’s skin, and she was forced to drop her cloak of shadows, drawing frantically for more power from the battle and the waves. There was no time. Osanna was not a strong magic user, but the amount of Thunder that the Nashorn drew left a void in the energy of the night like a hole in the universe. It was the only warning she had before she flung herself away from the resulting blast, landing hard on her belly and pressing close to the damp earth. Wet seeped into the chinks in her armor, and she shivered even as heat scorched the air where she had been standing only moments before, singeing her back and shoulders. She panted for a beat, not entirely sure how it was possible that she was still alive. There, just barely visible in the light of distant torches, Osanna could see the black of dart fletching against the giant’s shoulder. It worked! Now, to see if she could do it again. With the power she’d drawn, Osanna repeated her last attack against the Nashorn’s opposite shoulder, her last darts rising from her pouch. [hr] [center][h3] T H E N A S H O R N [/h3][/center] She had escaped. The Nashorn was beyond words. He howled and charged at her, but there were more of those darts: those accursed darts! She was accurate again too, and the little things were so hard to pick out in the haze of battle and all of its various energies until they hit. His other pauldron fell, and one of the straps holding his helmet on, but he stopped the final dart: the one that would've struck his opposite shoulder. For a moment, without his massive shoulder guards, the behemoth felt... just a little bit smaller, a little bit weaker. He felt - a wave of vertigo assaulted him, and he knew that something was wrong. That dart was poisoned. It had to have been poisoned. As panic set in, he felt for its insidious Essences and tried to smash every single one of them. The Nashorn pounded away at the poison. He could feel it in his veins, in his muscles, in his head, and he hated it. Slowly, though, he won against it, and let out a roar of fury. He blinked, still not feeling completely his normal self, and began to gather energy for an attack to finish matters. The woman disappeared again before he could unleash his attack, shadow blows snaking out of the night to cut at his head and shoulders. She nicked the strap of his helm, but he lashed out with one manacled arm and kept her at bay. [hr] [center][h3]O S A N N A[/h3][/center] Osanna did not quite believe it when the Nashorn's gauntlet closed over her wrist. She was too fast for this—too clever. She did not get caught. With a punctuated shout, she lashed out at him with her free hand, but he grabbed it too, surprisingly fast, and panic finally began to set in, cold and squirming in her chest. The magic hiding her bled away, and she spat in his face, white foam bubbling on the juggernaut helm sitting loosely on his head. "I will not fear you!" And then, the earth dropped away, the night blurring around her as the Nashorn swung Osanna over his head like a child having a tantrum. Frantically, she summoned Force energy, throwing it gracelessly against the ground to absorb the impact. The second time he slammed her into the earth, she was not fast enough. She heard her bones crack open in her forearm and collarbone before she felt them, and then the pain came like a wave, threatening to drown her senses. Tears streamed from her eyes, adding their moisture to the already muddy earth. It wasn't over. Osanna screamed as the Nashorn yanked her up from the ground again, jagged bone tearing into flesh and tendon. She was going to die. The ground was rushing up to her, her body empty of power. She found the only thing she regretted was not sending the Nashorn to Echeran before her. The impact never came. Water rushed up around Osanna, some other fighter's weapon now a cushion to her fall even as it soaked her armor and washed the sweat and dirt from her face in a rough torrent. The Nashorn staggered back, losing his grip, and Osanna was left splayed in the aftermath of the wave. She was not whole, but she still had one good arm, and her sword had fallen between her and her quarry. A deadly, killing calm settled over her, clearing her head. Osanna would not die today. And neither would she lose. Osanna sucked in a breath, drew power, and tensed to spring, dashing across the ground in a head-long sprint. She grabbed her sword from the earth and whipped it up to attack the Nashorn, dancing away when he reached an arm up to block it. She would not be stupid enough to stay within his reach again. "I hate you! You intruder, you poisoner of peace! I hate everything you stand for and every overpowered fiend like you! I mark you as belonging to the God of Death, heathen, and I will take your life in his name!" [hr] [center][h3] T H E N A S H O R N [/h3][/center] The blade clanked off of his armor, but a new caution had wound its way into the giant. He had no armor to cover his shoulders, and most of the rest of it was filled with heavy water that still dripped and trickled from the gaps, exposing clearly where they lay. The woman screamed at him, then, in a language that he did not understand, the same way that many had screamed at him. The Nashorn did not care. He had been a weapon since he could walk, and it had brought him all that he had, all that he was. He had been 'stupid' in the eyes of all since he had failed to speak as a child. Voices flung at him like weapons were nothing new, and he would break them with deeds instead of further words. This stinging one was wet: covered in water and holding metal. He pulled from the charges in the air and unleashed them upon her to stop that flapping mouth and those stinging hands. She was too quick, her small form twisting out of the way like a dancer or a hawk in flight. Laughter burbled from her lips, a sound that carried across the field despite the noise of battle. And she was coming for him again. She was quick, but not quick enough to entirely avoid his blow. The horn gracing the top of his helm scored a deep line across her injured shoulder, and her laughter turned to screams. For a moment, The Nashorn gloried in his triumph, but then her sword thrust up like a bullet to slip beneath the edge of his helmet and skewer him in the neck. He rolled to the side, and it lanced through his armpit instead. Ligaments and tendons snapped, and he roared in pain. The arm hung limp, and he glowered at her. They were up towards where the cliffs began, now, and there was material enough for something different. Instead of doing the obvious, however, he drew from the sand itself, making blades of it: blades of his own. He flashed at her, artless but unstoppable, each blow heavy enough to bring death if it landed. She dodged him, nimble as a snake, and lunged forward, taking off his helm with a well-aimed strike. Her eyes widened, and he knew why, knew what she saw. He could see the image of him change in her eyes, from steel giant to soft, boyish man, all blond hair and plump cheeks. He growled, and one of his blades found the flesh of her hip. The woman gasped and stumbled back, clutching the wound. For once, she did not try to strike him again, only disappeared for a moment, her magic faltering as she stumbled back to the walls, and sharp horn blasts signaled the Parrench retreat. The Nashorn leaned back, glaring at the sky in anger and frustration before forcing himself onward despite more wounds than he had suffered in years. He had not defeated her, but he would still prove his worth that night. [hider=Synopsis] -Osanna engages the Nashorn with allies who are eventually drawn away to fight other battles. -They fight until they’re both barely standing, and the retreat is called. -Osanna heads to the walls with a broken collar bone, broken arm, stab wound to the hip, and plenty of smaller cuts and bruises. -The Nashorn is left without much of his armor, bleeding from a stab wound to the shoulder and several smaller wounds, and without one of his eyes. [/hider]