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It was unsurprising for the mausoleums of nobles to possess such finery. Just as it became the final resting place for the fallen, so too was it a museum in its own right, a place to foster a sense of belonging and pride to the descendants of such nobles. Marble statues, life-like yet larger than life, were granted to even minor members of the family, as if to state that their birth alone granted them the right to be enshrined, to be celebrated for as long as stone lasts. To be remembered, by the legacy they left behind, by the epitaph their loved ones engraved upon their headstones. Serenity too, had seen the mausoleum of the Arcedeens. Flawless walls, bedecked by lapis and silver. Legends carved down, so the learned could become enlightened. Murals depicting their finest moments, songs once sung still echoing down the long chambers, as one strode upon a myriad-patterned carpet to reach the very end, where the progenitor’s ashes laid, contained in a simple, unadorned pot.

‘From dirt we came, and to dirt we’ll return.’

It was privilege enough to be remembered. For the Lover Goddesses to grant one’s soul eternal rest. For the bodies that had trained, had bled, had worked for the kingdom to become intermingled with the soil from which Thaln drew its foundations. For one’s descendants to further hone your craft, reaching pinnacles that you could not comprehend.

And yet, there remained those who decided that it wasn’t enough.

Poor Veilena. Another of her ancestors lived only to besmirch her family’s name. Damon Cazt may be of a different evil compared to Anzel Cazt. He may hold himself to some higher standard, may disapprove of what the necromancer had done. But still. He was there, that blood-eyed vampire. Lounging against the grave that his family had built, conspiring with the blasphemers and criminals who sought the Princess’s assassination. He was no Paladin, who had pledged herself to the service of Mayon’s church, who had earned her forgiveness from Reon through unending service.

If there remained the possibility of pardon for this wretch, there was still a long way to go.

Serenity breathed. Felt Gerard’s hand on her shoulder. Heard the words he had to say.

And in response, she pressed her shield against his chest, until that idealist of a mercenary knew to grasp it in his own.

“I take it,” the lioness called, “that the girl still lives?”

"Of course. It wouldn't do much good to arrange a rescue party if she didn’t, would it?"

A living hostage was better than a dead one, for both parties, but such confirmation was still good. She did not turn to address her companions any further, only left them with parting words.

“We are shield and sword, to protect the innocent and purge the craven.” A pause, a silence broken by only the rasping of the shortsword from its sheathe. “The order is important here.” Perhaps it was the nerves that was causing it now, perhaps it was her adrenaline instead. “So why in Mayon’s name is it that only Sir Steffen and I thought to bring a shield, when we all knew that we’d have to rescue an innocent girl?”

In her right hand, the mace. In her left hand, the sword. Equal length weapons, but divergent in intention. Her eyes gleamed with a blue that the corpse before her could never appreciate again, and her sinew tautened, a steel coil building upon greater strength as her heart thrummed.

Now, she had but words for her enemy.

“I am Dame Serenity Arcedeen, of the Knights of the Iron Rose. Damon Cazt, your existence alone serves only to blacken the reputation of Lady Veilena Cazt. If remorse remains a sensation beneath your cold flesh, I recommend you pray to the Goddesses for forgiveness and take your own head.”

Her lips curled. A bloodless smile for a bloodless foe.

“And if not, then allow me to perform your final rites.”

Performative. It was enough that a human knight alone was able to take the time of an immortal. But if she was going to play, she may as well play to win.
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Lein



Location: The Cazt Mausoleum
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Lein's usual ironripper bow didn't have a name. Its simple, sturdy but pedestrian craftsmanship had served him well enough over his travels. It had earned its grooves and worn out strings over many quivers of arrows, and its bent iron sight guide signed Lein's attempts at fixing his distance shooting habit of listing rightwards. Still, Lein couldn't help but look at some of the more magical bows from time to time. Iron slugs could punch through armor fine - but why not also make them on fire? Or seek out his enemies like live predators?

All that was to say that he missed the ragged old thing sorely. The so-called 'bow' he had in his hand was as a pheasant - all show, with its crusted engravings and hammered sights, but couldn't hold a leg to the bite of the ironripper. It was, in part, Lein's fault that he had requested something expensive to...acquisition from the armory over some more pragmatic. Perhaps Lein could at the very least hang this thing on a wall looking all pretty-like if Lein managed to crawl out of here alive. In the meantime, Lein fetched himself a length of rope and sneaked back into the abandoned dance hall and harangued a servant to fill a small tablecloth's worth of flour. Three small sacks of flour, throw-able in perhaps a necromancer's face. Just in case things just wasn't going their end.

And finally, they marched their way into the Cazt crypt. Polished walls, lovingly adorned with the history of every minor. Lein was not so crass as to spit in this place. As much as Lein bucked many a times the garishness and pompousness of nobles (and yes, this crypt WAS too garish and pompous), he didn't feel the same kind of revulsion to this place. Say... Lein couldn't quite place why. He just felt that this place was incredibly lonely. So many statues, reveling in marble, acting as if to hold life against the ceaseless march of time. Legends, yearning to be read and sung and taught and praised. But really, the real flesh of them all had been gorged on by maggots and worms, rotting under the weight of their own extravagance. Even in death these people would claw at any form of life. Folly. Lein hated that he knew it so well.

The dead here refused to remain where they belonged, in sodden memory and distant yearning. So back down Lein sent them, though most of the battle was done whilst Lein was busy checking the mausoleum's outskirts for any explosives or traps. Sure, the nem could be telling them the truth. But who wasn't to say the assassin wasn't fibbing? Or the assassin was just lied to? If he was the necromancer, this was quite the trick to pull off - split the defenders into two, collapse the crypt entrance so one group can't get out whilst they were in the necromancer's advantageous domain, and fight the remainder at one's leisure. It was almost disappointing to see, though, that Lein was perhaps alone in thinking of such a scheme.

So down they went, only to meet someone who claimed to be 'Damon Cazt'. Something akin to a vampire, judging by the fact that he looked far too pristine to be a corpse.

"Sorry, you're not really my type." Lein jabbed a thumb back toward a coffin, cheerily jeering, "Think you just might have a chance with your sister over there, though?"

Lein looked at Gerard and shrugged in response to Serenity's declaration of a duel. Pace her, he would not. If the small time that Lein took observing this ill-tempered knight convinced him of anything, it was that she would not be convinced of anything. Many compared her to a lioness, but Lein would easier compare her to a bull or jousting horse - forward, and not one step edgewise. So the best thing to do now was just Lein to step out of the way and let the knight have some lone time with the vampire, else Lein get slammed into a wall afterwards for 'stealing the glory of dying alone'. "Fetch his lapel for me and I'll get Mori to write a ballad in your honor, Serenity!"

Despite Lein's mirth, he was worried. They were now spreading thin. Fleuri, Vier and Steff was dealing with some kind of axe wielding statue aspirant, and now Serenity. From the vampire's mouth, it was probably exactly within the necromancer's plan. Lein addressed Fanilly. "Capt, are we floggin' the horses too hard on this one? We're in a crypt, whoever's in here got jack to go, and we're already spread pretty wide. We don't know what the necromancer's planning, with us dropping cards like this."
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Gerard Segremors

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So be it, then.

The palm on her shoulder was lifted away, and instead freed her of the shield that had served as her answer. He shifted his grip on the mass of wood, metal, and hide for a moment, listening to the all-too-familiar words she gamely chided their number beneath...

"Good hunting."

And left in tow of the group at large, bringing up the rear as he looped his fingers around its handle. A resounding "yes" to the unspoken question beneath his words. Assurance delivered through action and intent, wasting little else on the answer Gerard knew to expect. Of course, she was willing. He almost felt a fool to hold those doubts, small as they'd been.

The lesson she'd left them with, ringing in his ears even in the wake of the familiar sound of a blade sliding free from a scabbard, was all too familiar to him— to the point where in spite of her tone addressing the group at large, Gerard quietly wondered if the reason he now held the first duty of the Iron Rose upon his left arm was purely just that he was there to take it.

... No matter, though. Whether or not it was her intent, the result was the same.

To Lein's very point, they were already spread thin with this much— Down to four alone in the span of two lieutenants, and if he'd stayed behind with her, it'd be the captain and the archers. A death sentence if walking into any more hordes of undead alone, forgetting any of the other bigshots. The gambit by this conspiracy was fairly clear, in his eyes.

"They've been peeling away protection of our command with each of the bigger threats they've sent, taking choke points so we don't have much option in the matter." he breathed as he concurred with the Hundi archer, toneless save for tension. It boiled his blood to think about, but he fought, desperately, to keep a lid above the fury that had served him so well and keep thinking. "You're right. We might be looking at Jeremiah again, if this is how they intend to play it—"

Leather creaked as his grip on the morningstar tightened, knuckles close to white beneath the gloves. It occurred to him, through the rush of black fire pouring away from his heart, that it may have ended up that he held seniority among the four of them in raw battlefield experience.

"We have to keep tight above all else. I don't know if they've any means to cut these passageways off..."

A burning tree flashed through his mind, followed by the flash of a heavy arc of steel, followed by a spray of blood, cresting the blaze.

"But extended as we are, we can't afford another split regardless. Too easy to get drawn out and picked off at that point."
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Fionn MacKerracher


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Tyaethe's blushing at Maletha's question earned a raised eyebrow, while Renar continued to entertain Elisandre. Both were...mildly surprising. He wasn't aware Tyaethe could still blush, and whatever the practicality behind it, he could only imagine that this conversation was like pulling teeth for the illegitimate nobleman across the room. "I'll make sure to hunt a copy down when I get the chance," he said after a moment. "If they treat the Bloody Lord's character well, there's got to be something good in it, right?"

Though, he wondered how likely it would be that such a popular novel might actually pull from the old myths for the story, rather than just copying some common characters from the myths. Falling silent again, his glance pulled back from the door over to the balcony the way it already had multiple times over. His choice to remain behind with the princesses was a reasonable one, he figured, both for his Mayonite bent and the fact he'd already taken up the role within the instant the assassin fired her crossbow—but the way the group was split so completely made him uneasy.

He far preferred to have an eye on all of his fellow knights when able, rather than simply trying to distract himself and hope for the best for them; the feeling of distaste only intensified considering that his own smaller group within the order had split in half for this task.

"Any other works either of you would recommend?" he asked, trying to banish the unease with more conversation. "Most of my reading has been of the dry and technical sort of late."
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Steffen Gravinir


He did not expect anything less of Barukstaedians, but what he was a little taken aback of was his sudden aggression, not letting the Ingvarr regain his breathe and charged straight at him with his axe already gleaming for the kill. But the runic armor, the giant two-handed axe and a very committal overhead swing left a rather easy time guessing where that axe was going to go.

As the axe sped up to the point of no readjustment, Steffen jumped sideways away from the axe's blow, leaving it crashing through where his head had been half a second ago and into the ground, the explosion that came afterwards doing relatively little damage to him aside from a couple rocks flung towards him. As grateful as he is that the Flower of the North immediately took advantage of the moment, and the Sword Sage standing by, the axe-wielder was seemingly unfazed by Fleuri and the axe explosion, something which for any normal person would have maimed or killed. Granted it was likely the result of the runic armor, but this did make things a little tricky.

Standing up straight, the Ingvarr knight wrapped the hammer back to his waist, and the shield back behind him. Two more weapons made useless against this blessed northern warrior, for magic transcended the physical realm. However, it was not very hard to read between the lines. From that first moment when they both clashed, the magic running its courses through his metallic weapon was not always explosive. If that axe could explode on command, Steffen would have been dead the moment he attempted a contest of strength.

'That, or he's not a very combat-experienced individual.'

He wanted to know which one it is.

"I got the mass, I can hold him down." Steffen stepped up once again, standing ahead of his two fellow knights, knowing he was the only person capable of holding back this opponent's sheer strength. "Please be the hammer once the axe lays on the anvil."

Once again, the Ingvarr stepped closer to the Barukstaedian, but outside of his axe striking range. But unlike last time, he did not make any attempts to get the first strike in. He maintained his composure and waited for the northerner to make a move, but while also wordlessly conveying his message to him: both his hands raised to his chest level, one in front of the other, the hand closest to his opponent curled into a fist.

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While the Barukstaedian warrior was certainly skilled, covering the stairs and fighting multiple opponents at once was a challenge for any warrior. While he was preoccupied, the Knight-Captain and the remaining Iron Roses were able to push past him, down the stairway and deeper into the crypt.

There was little time to dwell upon the nature of the place. From the bodies lining the walls, the intricate effigies adorning each tomb, with others represented outside instead. The colorful banners, the celebration of the lives of those interred here.

Thankfully many of them did not seem yet risen.

Fanilly had to guide her knights. She had to act in her role.

As Fanilly prepared to open her mouth, to dispense her own orders as Knight-Captain rather then relying on another, a figure emerged from an alcove.

But this was no dusty, worn, decrepit undead.

Fanilly drew a sharp intake of breath at his appearance. Even with her experience with Tyaethe, it was still something of a shock.

He was alive and breathing, healthy-looking, aside from the deathly pale tone of his skin. The red eyes, the slight point to his ears, and his excellent condition...

One didn't have to be familiar with vampires to recognize one that wasn't attempting to hide himself. This was no raised corpse. When the vampire introduced himself as Damon Cazt, there was no reason not to believe him. But why was he here? Was he the mysterious man Tili had mentioned, that she didn't know much about?

And his behavior was strange, too. He had slipped the note onto the Nem? That would explain some things, but to what end? A rescue? Had he intended for all of this? There was very little time to worry about it, especially given the situation.

Even if she really was still alive, they still didn't have very much time.

Nor did they have many more knights, either. They couldn't afford to lose anyone else, if Serenity chose to face Damon herself.

Fanilly took a deep breath.

"Dame Serenity, if you are to remain here, then the rest of us must move on ahead," she began, her blue eyes once more drifting to the vampire. She was worried. She couldn't help but worry. But remaining would only jeopardize their goal even further. "Iron Rose Knights, any further threat we face, we cannot afford to split up any further. We will cut them down as swiftly as possible before moving deeper."

She took a step forward, leading the knights further down into the crypt. It was there only choice. Lady Veilena's apparent ancestor had no intentions beyond a duel, it seemed, but that didn't mean she was not worried for Dame Serenity's sake.

Especially given the nature of the situation.

"Archers to the center," she declared. While they had few knights left, it was important to try and maintain some kind of formation. Sir Gerard was right, it was obvious that their opponents were peeling away their numbers as much as possible. While she couldn't be certain of Cazt's motivations, it was impossible to ignore the outcome.

But their goal remained.

Rescue the hostage and put and end to this conspiracy.

As soon as Damon Cazt and Serenity disappeared from view, they were greeted with a new sound.

A rattling noise from below, as something ascended the stairway.

And then they appeared. The empty eye sockets and perpetual grins made Fanilly's blood freeze for a moment, her hands tensing.

These undead were older bodies. Their flesh had withered away entirely, and no armor remained. The swords, axes, and spears in their hands were fresher. Fanilly knew little of mechanics of necromancy, but she recalled that skeletons were more difficult to destroy simply because of how little was left.

She raised her sword.

"Just as with the other undead, do everything you can to make them useless!" she declared. "Their heads, their limbs, smash them apart!"

But that wasn't all. Another shadow was proceeding up the stairs, following the pack of skeletons...

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"Yes, Rozenalt's portrayed as quite threatening," The First Princess agreed, with a nod, "As exciting as most of the novel is, scenes like Rozenalt's Antechamber, or the encounter with the Midnight Hunt, are so chilling."

She smiled after a moment.

"I always have to skip the latter when I'm reading with dear Maletha, she can't stand the description of the Knights of the Hunt and the Siheyar, and the part with the Eyes of the Forest bothers her too," she added, lowering her voice somewhat so as to not disturb her younger sister.

She paused for a moment as she considered Sir Fionn's question. The fact that she was being preoccupied with literature, one of her passions, meant that she was being quite effectively distracted from the situation.

"I'm fond of The Tale of Prince Erion," she replied, "So is Maletha. It's more historical then Fireheart, but not without its embellishments establishing it as a work of fiction. Hmm... ah, you might like The Fabulous Misadventures of Sir Gallenweigh! It's very lighthearted and fanciful, but Lady Sillen's imagination is so extravagant!"

"Elei... oh, you mean like, um..." the Second Princess trailed off for a moment, "Like the Milk Bunny? Um, that's Elei too, isn't it?"

She hummed the tune of the song after a moment, smiling slightly.

"M-maybe Thrinax and Elei could meet some day," she offered, holding Thrinax's stubby forelimbs up with her hands, "I-I'm sure there'd be a lot for them to talk ab-"

Suddenly she heard a thud from beyond the door, and some commotion.

Outside was where the Crown Knights and the failed assassin remained, the Nem bound and kept under careful watch.

The voice of Sir Adeforth could be heard, demanding that the Court Mage be called at once before it's too late.

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Fionn nodded along to the elder princess's recommendations after Adeforth stepped out of the room to oversee the knights under his command out in the hall. Not long after, though, any reply that Renar may have been about to make in turn was rapidly cut-off by some commotion and Adeforth's bellows ringing clearly even through the heavy doorway. He sprung across the room in an instant, at the door before the eldest Crown Knight's words had even stopped, trusting in Renar to watch the balcony entrance.

Not one to leave things to chance, his dagger slid out of its sheathe, as he firmly planted himself behind the door and cracked it open a sliver, peering out and calling:

"What's happened?"
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"It's the prisoner, she's...!"

It didn't take any further words from Sir Adeforth to clarify what was happening.

The Nem still bound, had fallen to the floor, spasming, struggling to breath, her entire body shuddering and twitching as tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Her legs tightening, her body shaking, the small pale figure was struggling on the floor, almost as if something had pinned her to the ground.

One of the guards had already departed in an effort to fetch the court mage, the other Crown Knight remaining, a desperate look on her face.

"I don't understand, we... how could she..."

"This is no poison," Sir Adeforth asserted immediately, "Look. This is the twisted devilry of a necromancer."

Indeed, there was no misunderstanding it for anything else. Tili's scarred throat was being constricted not by some toxin, but what appeared to be pressure, from an invisible force squeezing at her neck.

Upon understanding this, the remaining Crown Knight immediately moved to attempt to push whatever force was atop the nem away, but her hands found nothing.

"It's no use," continued Sir Adeforth, grimly, "Whatever that is can't be touched by normal means."

Time was short, if the court mage didn't arrive soon, or no other assistance was given, then...

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After a quick glance through the crack he'd opened at the choking Nem, Fionn drew back from the door, turning towards the bed.

"This is one for you, ma'am," he said quickly to Tyaethe. "Someone's magically choking our Nem. If you can break it, I've got the door for you."
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"...You guys worry to much." Cecil idly commented. Perhaps it could be said she worried too little about things like this, but Serenity could handle herself, and what were they going to do? Waste time and let these conspirators do whatever it was they set out to do? "I'll buy ya a drink when we all get back, Serenity." She'd offer the knight a cheeky smile and a friendly salute as she'd follow off after the others, forming up as the captain had told her to.

It was little surprise more undead awaited them in the crypts.

"Well at least we don't have to worry about the smell of a rotting corpse." Cecil immediately knocked a few arrows, but there was on thing her keen eyes had spotted and she was definitely not going to let go so easily. Her goal was obvious. Arrows wouldn't do to terribly much against skeletons as a whole aside from some well placed blunt force wind trauma or smash them against the walls, but she could definitely make it easier for the others and rattle whatever it was following the skeletons.

"Shael - Windburst!"

The twang of the bowstring. The whizzing of the arrow through the air. Aimed towards a skeleton towards the back, as soon as the arrow impaled its skull the arrow would explode in a flurry of wind, hopefully knocking or at least making the skeletons movements difficult for a few moments so the others could take care of them...and also distract whatever it was that was sneaking up in the back.

The man from Barukstaed
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A swing and a miss.

The axe missed Steffan by just a hairs breadth, the head of the weapon slamming into the floor again, another smoking crater being left behind where the knight had been previously. Rocks and earthen debris were flung from the crater, dust and smoke clouding the air from the impact. Immediately following the miss, however, the large warrior wasted no time in following through. The mans grip loosened on the axe, a single hand moving towards the very end of the weapons haft and swiftly turning to his right. As Flerui's blade found its mark, the cleric would suddenly find his head ringing as the axe was swung around in a wide arc, just clipping his helm.

This would put Vier in a somewhat favorable position on his left side, aiming to slice the mans unoccupied left wrist. The runed warrior, shifting his stance slightly would move his feet back to steady his stance, easily avoiding Vier's strike and instead bringing his own fist down on the other mans head, shoving him out of range before taking a few steps back, assessing the situation now.

And thus, his eyes fell on Steffan and his taunt.

"...Humph." An irritable grunt followed as he pulled his axe back into his hands...but he had a job to do. He wasn't to let these three past. That was his job, and that's what he was going to do. Instead of moving from his position blocking the path down, he'd merely glare at Steffan.

Exhaling, the large warrior would choose not to engage Steffan immediately again and instead heft his axe, giving a nod with his head, with a very clear understanding of "You come over here." If Fflueri's strike was bothering him, he didn't show it.
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After a quick glance through the crack he'd opened at the choking Nem, Fionn drew back from the door, turning towards the bed.

"This is one for you, ma'am," he said quickly to Tyaethe. "Someone's magically choking our Nem. If you can break it, I've got the door for you."






"I think I can help."

The blonde man slipped past Fionn with the lone, quiet sentence. He moved quickly, but not hurriedly; hurrying made for mistakes, mistakes that could be afforded least when time was short. He rolled up the sleeves of his formal attire in quick, efficient movements and surveyed the scene. The problem was obvious, the source unseen and untouchable. No physical force to oppose, and thus no physical remedy to be found. A human could survive without air for a couple of minutes. A Nem wouldn't last as long, not with their smaller size. An attack by arcane means required a defense in kind.

"Accerchiare d'acqua."

A small canteen from his pocket, upended on the ground,, did not fall in the random grasp of gravity; it arched, wrapping a perfect circle of water on the ground around the Nem with an unbroken sheen of surface tension. Purely holistic magic had never been his strongest suit. But in this moment Nicomede was the one at hand, the one with a chance to square himself against the malignant force that sought to end the same life it had sought to ruin. He would not allow that to happen. However strange this place had felt, however much thought it took to try and reconcile the people he had been in this place of nobility, this was crystal clear. He would not permit this.

Magic obeyed rules, and if you understood them you could understand the nature of a work. Within versus without, like behaved as like, and so on. With this circle, with his will, he created adversity; he set himself against the work by cutting it off from its target. A threshold, a barrier, that malevolence would have to project its will across. If it would not stop it would slow. He would force the evil to force its way past his will, and in so doing he would force it to reveal itself.

"Protection of Moon, protection by water. Protection of innocence that will not falter." The circle began to glow, softly, as if infused with moonlight. "Within thy demesne evil holds no sway. So as I plead, as I pray. Guardia lunare."

His eyes pierced the space before him, a second flask of water clasped in his hand. If the source was revealed he would strike, and strike without hesitation. Until that moment, until the crisis passed, he would set his will against evil.

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In response to the spell woven by Sir Nicomede, a strange noise seemed to come from the very air itself. It was something of a hiss, or a low, short breath, as the pressure on Tili's throat seemed to lessen slightly. Indeed, an incantation tied to the Moon itself, the waters of Mayon, was a powerful weapon against the wicked.

But it could only go so far.

Sir Nicomede's spell had certainly afforded them time. The entity or whatever presence had been called by the foul spell had not been forced to appear physically, but it was clear its efforts to kill the nem had slowed, its attempts to strangle her faltering due to the water knight's efforts.

But be it due to lack of experience with such magic, or the Caster behind the invisible presence's own skill, it failed to fully vanquish Tili's attacker, even if she had precious time bought by the spell.

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Tyaethe


"Er, yes, the Milk Bunny and Elei get their name from the same place..." Tyaethe answered, with a sigh, "Maybe? I don't know if you could bring Thrinax to Candaeln, and I'm not sure if I could bring something to the castle so easily..."

Oh, and the experience would be mortifying, there was that.

Fortunately, at least for the vampire's remaining pride, her expertise was needed, and she gave the little princess a quick apology and gathered up her dress as much as possible before going over to see what exactly Adeforth and Fionn were talking about. On the plus side, it seemed that Nicomede had successfully bought some time to think and gather any materials needed.

"Choking, choking... well, it can't be an active spell; the necromancer's not here," the white-haired girl mused out loud, holding one finger to her lips, "And any sort of enchantment-based trap would have been visible earlier and would definitely be something we could see now. It must be some sort of curse, then, maybe a spiritual possession or the like. Lucky for Tili, the solution is the same in either case."

The paladin looked around, noting that the girl's bedroom was, at least, fervently decorated. They might even have some useful plants here, "We're going to need to do an exorcism. It's more of a religious ceremony than straight magic, so..."

A paladin was, after all, a priest. Being a mage of any description on top merely helped in this situation.

"We'll need materials, quickly. Lilies, roses, any other holy symbols of the best quality you can get. More water would be good, don't worry about blessing it, I can do that. Candles would also help, and as much salt as you can possibly bring. If anyone finds any flammable oil in the process, that would also work."

Or anything else someone thought was helpful.

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Steffen Gravinir


Seems like the bait didn't work. The Barukstaedian was not as aggressive as he expected. And credits where its due, it was a smart move. Cooling down and not getting overly aggressive, even in what could be seen as a taunt, took certain mindsets to be drilled into them. But that left Steffen with having to break his usual fighting style and be aggressive. Normally, it wouldn't be too big of a deal, but his opponent was wearing this mystical runic armor of unknown properties. And he's also Barukstaedian...

"Hmmm." Steffen returned the nod with a faint smirk, acknowledging the return message, before his head tilted slightly. Despite the disadvantages that he had over the enemy, he still had several ideas, and he could test some of them right now.

The Ingvarr kept his distance from the axe man for a moment, clearly trying to wait for his moment. And when it came, he moved swiftly, trying to close the distance and get close enough so that the lengthy axe began to work against the warrior, delivering a flurry of straight punches, with occasional punches rounding from the sides, mostly aiming towards his exposed face. Any clashes colliding with the axe or the armor produced an earth-shattering sound. If the armor hadn't been runic, it likely would have been dented. But the commitment to attacking the upper half section of his opponent left Steffen somewhat open to being hit back.

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Renar Hagen


Well, well. The princess had quite a bit of spare time on her hands, to be able to be as well-read in fiction as she was. And here he thought that royalty would be trained far more extensively in matters of state and administration. As someone with a rather...difficult youth behind him, Renar couldn't help but be just a tiny bit bitter about that. And mildly concerned for the state of Thaln's future, but that was a different consideration altogether.

When the call for aid came from outside the door, it was almost a relief. Waiting for a definite threat was hell on the nerves. Now that it had arrived, he could assess and-

Oh. It was only the nem adventurer, choking to death. Not his problem, then. Judging by what he was hearing, this was definitely magical in origin. So it was beyond the scope of his knowledge as well. Sir Nicomede's efforts were certainly valiant, but didn't quite offer a solution regardless. Unfortunate for her, then. Short of putting the girl out of her misery, there really wasn't much Renar could do in this situation. At least Dame Tyaethe seemed to be experienced enough with the matter to determine that they needed an exorcism. He started moving to gather some of the materials mentioned and bring them to Tyaethe, making multiple runs to and from the room. As he did, Renar began to consider the ringleader's approach in his head.

So he cursed the nem. Certainly, the presence of the Iron Rose in the crypt by now would indicate that she'd squealed. But petty spite would be a waste of time if it didn't serve some sort of goal or tactical advantage. Now, in the necromancer's shoes, how would Renar have best taken advantage of this...ah.

"Dame Tyaethe," Renar murmured aside to her as he made another delivery of exorcism supplies. "There could still be an attempt made during all this. Were I in the ringleader's place, I'd be using this as a distraction for another assassin. Your thoughts?"
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Gerard Segremors

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The former mercenary, by contrast to Cecilia's flighty and careless whimsy that so befit the wind spirits her bow ensconsed, had become a picture of tight-lipped and grim violence, smashing the puppeteered bones free from the unholy strings that held them aloft behind furrowed brow, unspoken snarl, and furnace-like eyes. Gerard instead responded to the shaken-off concerns by closing the gap between himself and the other three whenever the fight may have pulled one astray, surging to fill whatever holes their maneuvering and distance management opened in their small, diamond ranks with bludgeoning, swinging steel.

Keep formation tight, and she could worry as little as she liked. That was the role of heavily-armed brawling escort like himself to an archer like her to begin with, in all fairness.

Against these foes, he was glad to have taken Dame Serenity's shield off her hands— there were few men-at-arms alive that overlooked its capability as a weapon in its' own right, merging a wall of steel to block the jerkily swung but visibly fresh blades sent their way with a good mass strapped to the off hand to return with full-bodied shoves, charges, and back-handed swipes that crashed into the enemy as though a mighty chariot.

The silhouette stalking up the stairs, doubtless, was another of the Lieutenants at play, meaning to take another of their number off the formation as the rest descended. They were fuller of form, careful in their stride, heavier in their footfalls as the ascending steps thumped with their approach, beneath the many sounds of battle. With nothing else to go off of, the valiantly conscious part of Gerard's mind that hummed beneath his familiar battle-rush spoke of a third refrain, to be sure.

Gritting his teeth, the wolf's amber gaze affixed the figure with an open glare, catching the burst of burning Aurum of Reon's fury as he brought Dawn's Break smashing through the clavicle, then ribcage, then spine. All that spared it of his wrath, speaking frankly, was knowing how thin they had already spread. Unless they held for their fellows behind to crash into the enemy from above, hoping they would make short work of the strong foes they'd already been faced with... he couldn't go for this one's throat. Not yet. Not on his lonesome.

So instead, he howled.

"Another one coming up!" he called, about-facing to bring both shield and morningstar to bear on the new threat. "If we're going through him, I've got point!"

The burliest and meanest of their number, and armed with a Paladin’s steel, him as the battering ram just made sense. His prior career had shaped him for it.
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Down in the Mausoleum


"My final rites? My, you're a quick one to jump to killing, aren't you?" the apparent young man said, shaking his head in disappointment, even though the smirk never left his lips, "I don't quite recall doing anything to warrant a death sentence. Oh, I like to play rough, but I assure you, everyone leaves satisfied."

With everyone else gone, his eyes took on a thoughtful look, "Oh, do you mean this little faux pas? I'm quite sure my existence isn't a capital crime, and I already paid for that with my disinheritance.

"Hmm... or maybe that was for getting caught with the prince and the stableboy. Again." Damon continued, offering a slight shrug, "Oh well, I've never done anything bad enough for the family to disown me. Why, I even set up this little rescue opportunity you all have. I think I'll have to turn down your offer."

He seemed to finally have tired of his own voice, as that was the last warning before the arbalest swung into action, aimed and fired one-handed despite the length and weight. However, either he was a terrible shot, or it was deliberately targeted for the thigh rather than anything more... integral. Not that the risk of extreme blood loss was any better from such an injury.

His follow-up was equally indirect, the vampire seeming to prefer to do anything but advance and attack directly. His form was nothing exemplary, the thrust almost textbook apart from the foreign influence and circular approach. The movements of a duelling enthusiast rather than a lifelong warrior. It was just unfortunate that the speed, although not impossible to follow, compensated a lot for any sloppiness and the imbalance caused by his other weapon.

A weapon where a red tendril was already steadily pulling back the string, resetting the hefty weapon for another shot.

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Fionn MacKerracher


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As Renar quickly gathered up all the most immediately accessible items—a pitcher of water from the princess's bedside, candles for reading when light got low, and even taking oil from some of the lamps along the hallway walls—Fionn reached up beneath the hauberk and arming jacket he'd pulled over his fine clothes, taking off the silver rose badge he'd had pinned to his outerwear and setting it next to Tyaethe. Then—with a slightly apologetic shrug in Elisandre's direction—he claimed the pot of lilies growing next to the balcony exit and brought it over as well, though keeping the princesses and that balcony both in his vision the whole time.

Renar wasn't the only one worried about a follow-up attack. "If such an attempt comes, then I think we'll be the best equipped to handle it," he replied as Renar finished speaking. "Let them handle the magic, and we handle the follow-up, aye?"
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Tyaethe


"Just make sure nobody breaks through the windows," Tyaethe said, not really focusing on the risk of someone launching another attempt. If they tried to come down the corridor, it was empty enough that she was rather confident even their previous assassin's stealth wouldn't be able to deceive her senses... and if anyone planned to attack through the castle walls, there was little any of them could really do to stop it. They'd just have to hope that whatever protections had been engraved in the stone itself were strong enough to dissuade such brazen attempts.

Given the improvised nature of the implements, and the rather pressing fact that the subject in question was choking, the paladin did a surprisingly efficient job of setting up a circle that seemed halfway organised: the candles regularly placed around the nem, interspersed with the lilies, and Fionn's badge set in the centre with a nod. The water only got a brief prayer--although the red gleam of mana was visible, no doubt using her own magic to assist--before being rather less ceremoniously poured atop the subject.

The prayer that followed was an... odd choice. Something that was even familiar: the supposed transcription of Saint Lilianna's prayer for assistance before standing to fight Orodrunn. Only, the phrasing and grammar were off, the words a considerably older, less elven-influenced form of Talderian. Still recognisable, yet with a few passing similarities to the languages of Barukstaed or Velt.

Rounding it off was taking the oil to daub a fleur-de-lys on the poor nem's throat as the rushed ceremony drew to its conclusion.

With the somewhat unexpected addition of the symbol bursting into violent flame with a click of Tyaethe's fingers.
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Fleuri Jodeau


Fleuri stepped back as the axe narrowly struck his helmet. That was too close for comfort, he thought. True, he wouldn't be much of an Iron Rose if he wasn't willing to step out of his comfort zone, but it'd be a good idea to not let that happen again. He was lucky that the axe was not charged when it hit. The explosion from that weapon was strong enough to make a crater in the stone- he did not want to see what it'd do to someone's head.

Judging from what he had seen, the runic engravings on the axe glowed when it was charged, and released its charge upon striking something. If they could strike the axehead before its wielder brought it down, perhaps the unexpected detonation might unbalance him...although doing so might damage his weapon in the process. If they could make it go off close enough to its wielder, they might even be able to injure him with it. It wouldn't be easy though- Fleuri assumed that if this northerner was running around with such a dangerous weapon, surely he'd be experienced enough to not hurt himself with it. On the other hand, assuming the warrior wasn't an amateur who had no idea what he was doing, this might lend a bit of predictability to when and where he'd would and wouldn't use his axe's special power.

When Steffen moved in for another attack, Fleuri was ready to support him. The Ingvarr moved in close and attacked unarmed, presumably wanting to get in too close for the axe- and too close for the warrior to safely use the magical explosion. Fleuri rushed in too, bringing his sword and hooking it beneath the axe's beard or heel, preventing the Barukstaedian from bringing it down on the approaching Invgarr. Between the length of his greatsword blade and the leverage that he had, he should be able to keep the axehead away from himself, but he kept a safe distance behind his sword's crossguard just in case.

Whatever the others were going to do, they'd better do it fast before the northern warrior managed to free his axe.

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