Gerard Segremors

It began not with a war call, nor with a burst of violence, but instead with a flicker, at the edge of what could be caught. Were it not for the fruits of his hard labor in the dream that had been granted upon them all, Gerard was sure he would have been smote in that single stroke.

A flash of movement, a nudge of the wrist that a duller eye would have believed a twitch, barely running down the length of her bone-wrought blade.

The faintest whisper of wind approaching, honed to an edge so fine his ears barely caught warning before it brushed against his skin.

Barely there. Tells even the prescient would struggle to read, of such he felt certain— it was by Reon’s grace that he saw the truest sign of danger, one that seemed in its own right madness, everything he saw falling out of line for the barest instant.

Deadly experience roared to life within him, one of the many quaint lessons imparted by Cyrus at the end of his Hammer— when the world is split before you, no matter how impossibly, you by Reon’s grace got the hell out of the middle.

An instant later, fast as he could, the knight let his feet take him to the left, choosing the side of the world that brought him close to where his mysterious opponent stood, his longsword coming to bear in the wake of the unseen attack even as a thin line opened onto the fresh steel of his helmet, and his thoughts raced.

That was different from the projected slashes he had become accustomed to, insofar as what repeated trouncing at the hand of Rui had taught him to be able to see— they didn’t attack his perception like the pale lady had, either. It was impossible, surely, to split the world. He’d seen as he had darted to the side, the change in angle revealing only a light fissure through the earth where he had stood but an instant ago. Had she cut at his sight itself, the same as the realm’s mistress had attacked the Duke’s mind?

He whipped the point around as he came into the dominant angle, outside her sword arm— his first blow swiftly tearing through the air towards her veil. Not quite a simultaneous counter, but decently close— enough that he could test her defensive reactions with it. Already, this much told him that he’d need to stick close if possible— whatever the true nature of that projected cut was, he wasn’t keen on finding out how far away she could manage it from by way of getting stuck on the outskirts of her range.

No, not his sight. His eyes were working again as soon as he had thrown himself clear of the divide. Her cut had landed upon his visor, not his vision.

So what the hell, then? Invisible, barely audible, still sharp enough to rend earth and steel… But with a tell that threw everything he saw behind it into a subtle offset. Vexing. And dangerous, even before the fact that despite the veil obscuring her face, he’d felt her eyes on him just as his were measuring her.

Hn. Were it so easy to confuse her sight similarly. But unless he wanted to kick up the bisected corpse and stain that veil of hers red… such potentially unsporting ideas would need to simmer while he fairly, honestly, and valiantly kept himself alive. He had accepted a challenge between the two of them, and no other. If her steed would not ride to her aid, then…

There were far less openly foolish ways to cross the Fae than chucking a corpse at them.

He doubted their blades wouldn’t cross here. His full weight and strength was behind the blow— If they reached a bind, he would take measure of her strength before trying to wind over for a a thrust. The unseelie lady was as dainty as any foe he had seen upon the field of battle, practically a reed. In approaching to present arms, Gerard had found even his rather middling height to loom over her. He was probably thrice her weight.

All things that were at most points similarly true of Tyaethe, a few hundred meters away. He had a nose for a suckers’ bet— if he could muscle her around, he wagered he’d find out the old fashioned way.

"Ahahah, but don't you know how this story goes, Rozenalt?" Tyaethe kept attacking even as the first blows got through, scratches torn open into unsightly gashes – only for shadow to flow out after the blood, replacing it with smooth skin like nothing had ever happened. "You always lose. It doesn't matter who tells it or who your enemy is, how it goes down. All anyone really needs to know about you is that the hero triumphs. What does it matter if you got some fairy backup? So did we."

When they got here.

Despite the thorns, Tyaethe initially kept swinging, but – well, even leading with one arm and sacrificing even more control to swing the sword with only her left hand, it wasn't like she was in a position to stop Rozenalt from backing off behind his screen of thorns, leaving her with one shredded arm and blood everywhere. Ah, she really would have to push this until it came to that, then? He wasn't going to just stay in melee until she finally got a blow in.

That was a pity, but the vampire had always known that would be the case.

"Oh, speaking of when I win… can I have your blood?" She lifted her still-bleeding arm, giving it a lick. Ah, almost tasteless, it was a shame. She could hear Rozenalt's. Hear it too clearly… what was he like, under that armour? Was he really playing vampire? Oh, how she wanted to find out. Would it be as vile as he was, or would the magic and fae influence elevate it into something else? Bitter foods could still be savoured. "I promised Reon I wouldn't take it, even from monsters, but you won't be needing it after, will you?"

Rushing him while he was preparing that spell would be suicide. She would just be running straight into it when he swung. But as Rozenalt's arm came down, the vampire lunged backwards, freshly-healed arm heaving one of the Hunt's knights out of position from its current fight and into the path of the spell—

It wouldn't be enough, the wave would still chew right threw it and her. But she didn't need a barrier, she just wanted a convenient springboard to jump and kick off… and force Rozenalt right back on the defensive, using his own magic and ally as a screen long enough to get back into position.

Alright, truth be told, Renar hadn't actually expected the blinding powder to be effective. Was he expecting it to serve as a distraction so he could get a real blow in? Of course. But this was better than expected.

And now it was retreating. And afraid. Or at the very least, faking it very well. Still, Renar couldn't help but exult to himself in his head that he'd made a member of the Wild Hunt fear him. Not to grow cocky, but best to keep the pressure and not give the wretch a chance to even breathe.

The Bastard of Brias stalked forward menacingly, his left hand reaching down to his belt to draw a throwing knife and hurl it at the huntsman. And then another. And then a third. Teach it that distance didn't render him less of a threat. His pace grew faster with each knife thrown, aiming to keep the trapper off balance while he closed the gap, moving to slam the hammer head of his poleaxe into his foe's helmet as soon as he got within range once more.

"Oh, sod off," Gertrude grumbled in response to Fanilly and Rolan's appreciation, almost imperceptible through the howl of the wind as they rocketed through the air. Gertrude steered sharply away from the oncoming horde of vulture-hags, only to realize that they had already been shot down by another party. But was it a third party, or a member of the first two? She couldn't say, but it made her wary. At the very least, Rolan didn't seem too concerned. Perhaps it was an ally she was unaware of.

Anyways, it wasn't like she wanted to help Fanilly specifically, she just wanted to win. It ticked her off that she was being thanked for her self-interest, but there really wasn't time for extra clarification. With most of the crones off their back, Gertrude had the opportunity to keep steady and allow Rolan to loose a bolt towards Rozenalt. Gertrude couldn't, for the life of her, tell who was winning that bloodbath. She could only guess that the victor would be whoever had more resources. More cards to play. And in that sense, she'd have to go with the smug blackguard.

Well, the other smug blackguard.

That is to say, not her smug blackguard.

Rozenalt.

But if she counted the Roses among Tyaethe's cards... they may as well be cheating as hard as the original Roses did in their card games. What sort of idiot would insist on intentionally playing with less from the start? It didn't make sense-

Dammit, she was starting to appreciate people. She'd need a stiff drink after this fight. Her eyes shifted back to Rolan. Gretchen had already started chanting, and Gertrude had a feeling that a powerful spell would be required judging from the movement to the north.

"I'm more than happy to engage in some gratuitous killing, though I'm not sure if the party to the north is numbers or size. Ah, scheiß drauf, either one will require some real firepower. Load up something that explodes."

---

The spectral falcon seemed to take some effort to reform from its cleaving as the falconer regarded Fionn, its head at a curious tilt. Whatever alien thoughts passed through its head judged Fionn as worthy, or perhaps necessary, to engage; the avian knight shrugged back the cloak of feathers to reveal its thus-far hidden weapons: in one hand, a serviceable rapier, and in the other… a plethora of knives? No; a gauntleted claw, its long talons each a heavy blade.

Without the element of surprise, it seemed the falconer was instead relying on speed and, unexpectedly, fencing technique as it thrust forwards.

Interesting pairing.

Luckily, it was a match-up that Fionn enjoyed practicing against, and with Lilia's presence, had only grown more familiar with. Even before accounting for the size difference, the falconer's choice of armament gave it a reach advantage. The weights were similar, leverage went in his favour just as reach went in its favour. As was often his method, he just had to get within the twisted being's reach. The clawed gauntlet could complicate that, but after years as a mercenary and then his time as a knight, tricks like that weren't enough to surprise him anymore.

He brought the black blade across his body, catching the thrust and pushing it to the side, keeping his point forward to ward off any opportunistic rush the whole while. Dealing with a rapier at distance, it was best to play its game against it—constrain the blade, use the geometry to your advantage, and never release the threat. Trying to beat it aside at the tip would only get him skewered, all the balance being back in the falconer's hand leaving it able to quickly move its blade out of the way.

The tip of the rapier twirled around his own blade, trying to regain the center. Fionn mirrored the cavazione, too quick to give a good opening. The timing would have to be nearly perfect if he wanted to get in close, to try and force the points completely off-line and make use of any of the strengths his weapon carried over the enemy's. One option of many.

He could bait a thrust, slap it aside with one gauntleted hand as he mirrored the thrust with another.

Grasp the blade entirely and force the falconer to rely on its claws as they moved for an outright grapple.

Direct a thrust towards some non-lethal, hopefully not crippling part of his body; he doubted the mail would really stop the needle-like blade, but if it was bound by his armor and flesh both, he knew he could gain the upper hand rapidly. He'd get an earful about it later from a multitude of the others, but it could be worth it if none of the other options looked better.

No doubt similar thoughts were going through the alien mind of the creature before him, as they sat in the bind, looking at each other over the blades of their swords. "Could always make it easy, like," he joked, as unconcerned with the threat of looming death as he had been rushing to duel the Golden Boars' commander after having to cut his way to the man through an entire battlefield. "You'll come back the next time this hunt goes on, aye? Just let me have your head, then, take a little break!"

Fleuri Jodeau

There were some blows to be deflected or parried, and some blows to be avoided, and the houndmaster's strike was, by Fleuri's estimate, firmly in the latter category. As the axe came hurtling town, Fleuri lunged to the side, out of the path of the descending weapon.

It was no surprise that this fae had no concern for the lives of their dogs. Even if their inhuman mind was capable of compassion or affection, Fleuri had heard stories of the Midnight Hunt never running out of hunters, never ceasing or diminishing until the sun rose, and suspected that death did not hold the same permanence for the participants of the hunt as it did for mortal beings. The fact that a long-dead villain was leading them further lent credence to this notion.

Regardless of whether he could actually hit it hard enough to keep it down, Fleuri would keep it occupied so long as was needed for Tyaethe to fell Rozenalt.

The moment the axe came down, Fleuri swung his sword horizontally towards the houndmaster's neck. With his foe summoning more hounds, even if they hadn't yet lunged, Fleuri needed to be ready to bring his sword around to his flanks at a moment's notice.

The Bloody Lord's answer to Dame Tyaethe's taunt was obvious.

There was a shriek like hundreds had died at once.

Lord Rozenalt's blade fell.

The wave of black and red light that tore through the night air was like a writhing mass of twisting worms, curling around one another. They chewed through the Knight of the Hunt's bronze armor and destroyed whatever being was inside, scorching the soil and grass as it passed over them and tearing towards the edge of the clearing, toppling a tree before fading out into nothingness.

But it hadn't worked as he planned.

The vampire paladin was already upon him. An angry roar left Rozenalt's lipless skull as his blade clashed with Dame Tyaethe', the resounding impact ringing out over the battlefield, the shapes of the spectral corpses clinging to his sword wavering.

"How can you possibly claim victory this time?!" he spat, voice sounding as if it was reverberating against the interior of his chestplate, "I'll crush you! I'll crush all---"

The Bloody Lord paused.

Something had struck him. It had slipped into a gap in his armor and struck him from above.

The bolt from a crossbow.

The bolt, still visible, started to shift. Something inside of Rozenalt's armor was moving, twisting around it. With a snap, it broke the bolt in half.

Whatever was within the Leader of the Midnight Hunt's armor, it didn't resemble a living human.

But the distraction had allowed Tyaethe's attack to force the enraged Rozenalt to step back, to give up ground just a little.

The vein-like structures that composed his cape started to move. From behind, it was possible to see that they seemed to emerge from within his armor.

They stretched and lurched upwards, writhing, thorny red tendrils tearing through the sky and shredding the air, haphazardly attempting to reach the broomstick-riding pair. The monstrous lord couldn't spare further attention to them, fending off Dame Tyaethe's assault as he was, but he didn't let the bolt go unanswered.

The vulture-hags numbers had thinned considerably due to Gertrude and Sir Rolan's efforts and the mysterious flurry of arrows from below, but it was difficult to tell how long that would last.

Indeed, more and more twisted hunters were emerging from the forest, monstrous creatures with unnatural forms. Long-legged, multi-armed, crawling monstrosities with dark, hanging hair, faceless giants with razor-toothed maws, and---

A spear pierced one of the imps.

Black arrows struck down the grinning men and several knights of the Hunt.

Normally, nithyr were not an uncommon sight among the Midnight Hunt's numbers. But perhaps it was notable that they were no-where to be found---

Until now.

Their blue eyes lumiscent in the dark, black-skinned forms of the notoriously capricious unseelie fae had emerged from the forest, brandishing bows, spears, and daggers. Their petite bodies were hidden by simple cloth and fur, or by nothing at all, as they joined the battle against the Midnight Hunt, skewering hunters and feathering them with arrows.

"Hello there!" cried one of the nithyr, an antler-bearing headband, a fur cape, and a simple loincloth standing as her only clothing, cheerily waving towards the knights, "We don't like him either!"

For once, their presence was not unwelcome.

---They were not the only new arrivals.

Across the clearing, where the forest had seemed to move as if something huge had been approaching, a dark shape emerged from the forest. A writhing, worm-like thing, hundreds of wings lining its segmented body, took to the skin. Its gaping maw was nothing but a void, toothless and large enough to swallow ten men, as it threw itself through the air towards Gertrude and Rolan.

@Raineh Daze@Octo@Eisenhorn

---

Forward and forward Renar came – right into the thickly-covered ground between himself and the trapper. Right where there couldn't have possibly been anything prepared, the ground firm and sturdy just before… but just as undeniably, where there had been solid earth, now there was a pit. Not too deep to climb out of, but an impediment nonetheless. Worse, the earth itself was seeping pitch, black and sticky—

And the trapper was now looming, now seeming too unconcerned at the knife sticking incongruously out of a gap in its armour. In its off hand it no longer held a length of rope, just an unlit torch – correction, a lit torch. One it was all too quick to throw in with Renar to try and ignite the mixture.

@Psyker Landshark

---

Fionn's words garnered an odd… chittering sound from the beaked creature. It might take a moment to realise that this was, perhaps, an attempt at laughter from a throat entirely incapable of it. In a grapple like this, its strangely twisted physique was even more apparent, the inherent inhumanity of the Falconer shining through, and not entirely to its advantage. It was strong, stronger than it had any right to be – but there was also so little weight to it.

Something that might be entirely necessary, the gleaming edges of the gauntleted hand a constant threat even if its main blade was pinned. It wasn't trying to use raking cuts; it wanted to turn the grapple into an amputation.

@The Otter

---

The Houndmaster burbled. It hadn't even tried to dodge, so committed to its attack. But even with its throat pouring blood, it stood straight without concern, the circling hounds only now committing to an attack. One passed too close to its master, and the axe found a new home, tearing through the man-beast without the slightest bit of concern.

It was undeniable; the blood was healing it, warping it. The burble turned to something between a throaty growl and a chuckle, the leather ripped and tore as the muscles beneath it swelled and warped – from something almost human, to something distinctly not, hulking and dark furred and almost as much of a beast as its own hounds.

But still of a mind enough to swing its axe, large enough and strong enough now that it only took one hand, the other free as it pounced to try and grab Fleuri, to grind him into the dirt.

---But she wouldn't let it!

Throwing herself forward, Fanilly swung her blade downwards, the glittering edge cleaving through the knight and burying itself in the monstrous hunter's free arm. It bit through flesh and bone, severing the limb entirely and leaving it pouring dark ichor on the grass. For the moment, the man-faced hounds and been disrupted, so she'd taken her opportunity to strike!

"I'm here to help, Sir Fleuri!" she declared. This---

This certainly wasn't the fae or spirit she'd seen at the opening of their clash, any longer. Its form had grown larger, more muscular, more hairy, as if it was becoming more akin to the man-faced hounds that were under its control. But she couldn't let that worry her.

They'd fight the hunt and overcome it. They had to!

@Crimson Paladin

---

It was difficult to see the strange weapon moving, but it was clear it had.

This time, she'd had no choice, given her need to defend herself. The unseelie lady's arm snapped into position in the blink of an eye, intercepting Sir Gerard's swing towards her head.

Her thin arm visibly jolted from the impact. Her face, at this range just slightly visible behind the veil, seemed as if it may have shown momentary discomfort, a barely-audible, soft sound leaving her lips.

It was clear her strength did not vastly exceed the expectations placed by her physical appearance. Perhaps that was why she almost seemed to allow to the blow to push her back, gently drifting over the grass as her bare feet left the ground.

Her lacking physical strength made it clear that she was not an opponent who wanted to remain locked up for very long. But it appeared she was mobile enough to escape such situations as well.

For now.

A barely perceptible flick of her wrist.

The world split once again.

@HereComesTheSnow

"It's going to be too easy if you don't remember your opponent," the vampire snarled, cheery demeanour dropping as Rozenalt turned his attention to the aerial interruption. Idiots, idiots, idiots. She had an idea what she was getting into by getting the Bloody Lord focused on her! She could handle it! She wanted to handle it!

And, more importantly, she needed him to stay obsessively focused on the annoying girl taunting him. The last thing Tyaethe needed was Rozenalt taking time to gather his thoughts and have some idea of what she was planning. Or for him to stop hurting her. There was already plenty of blood shed, but… not enough.

But she could still take advantage of this lapse of concentration and force him back to her. Rozenalt was overwhelmingly powerful and skilled to boot, but he wasn't 'focus all his attention on attacking a third party and defend from her unrelenting assault' strong. He'd avoided being bogged down in fighting any two of them in the past, after all, relying on the rest of the Midnight Hunt and the shifting battlefield to keep them from pinning him down.

And now it was evidenced in the sloppiness of his defence, the lack of pushback. Wasting magic on going for her allies? He thought she was arrogant? Focus on what was in front of you!

So what if his armour was unnaturally thickened, a product of black magic and fey enchantment both? It couldn't, wouldn't be as hard as Volkstraad's scales. If she could cut into those, then this might as well not be there. Not if she threw everything into it.

Even so, even distracted, Rozenalt was too guarded to cut through. But the line tracing its way down across his torso was unmistakeable.

If he didn't focus back on Tyaethe, she would be getting through.

---

"Either or. Fortune willing sufficiently flammable to not appreciate what it is about to start being forced to catch."

Rolan was tempted to take some pride in landing the shot on Rozenalt, given the distance and relatively small target he was aiming for. Even better, though better was tainted with the fact that whatever was inside the armor was confirmed, beyond a doubt, to be utterly inhuman, the bolt was broken off inside the armor rather than than removed completely. That meant the poisoned bodkin tip was still inside, though given how the bolt was broken off, well, he wasn't exactly going to hold his breath it would work as he hoped. It did seem to create an opening for Dame Tyaethe to continue focusing her unrelenting assault on the Bloody Lord. Unfortunately, that was all thanks to the split attention sending...vein like tendrils hurtling up towards them, and as he had just finished spanning his crossbow, he reached for the bag full of his steadily dwindling alchemical creations.

"Well he didn't take kindly to the interruption, maybe this will dissuade him from interfering in return..."

Uncorking the vial and flicking his arm in a single motion, Rolan sent a spray of clinging, sticky alchemical fire directly in the path of the oncoming tendrils. He had to trust that Gertrude would handle evasive action, given his lack of agency in maneuvering themselves around above the battlefield. He didn't have time to analyze how the others were doing either, given the onset of two things. One, the source of the black arrows made themselves known, and he would have been wrong had he muttered a name as to who was interceding. Nithyr, maybe not on their side exactly but most certainly opposed to Rozenalt. A hand raised to return the greeting from the one shouting, all he could spare given the rumbling revealed itself from the north at last, continuing to mutter to himself as he readied himself for what was coming.

"...We got the numbers, they got the size...."

A massive, winged, worm like creature with a toothless maw that could probably swallow an entire mounted charge in one fell movement. Rolan wouldn't lie, he missed his time spent bounty hunting every time some new, fresh abomination came lurching into his life and, by extension, awareness. Loading a bolt and locking his legs together tighter to brace for having to no doubt evade again, Rolan fetched a bottle, one that had been taking up a significant amount of space in his satchel. Too large to fit to a bolt (unless he were to wield a siege weapon like a personal one, but that was beyond him anyways), and too unwieldy to do more than throw a short distance. He had been keeping it to top off new vials but had another plan now, seeing the large maw bearing down on them. Hurling it with all the strength he could muster, before shouldering the crossbow and pausing for just long enough for the tumbling bottle to be squarely in the toothless void of a maw before loosing his bolt. The bolt would break the bottle and send the flames hurtling into the abomination, that had so kindly set up a relatively easy shot, and fortune willing would not take kindly to having a maw and inside that was now not only on fire, but stubbornly so.

Fleuri Jodeau

The hounds closing in was the least of his problem- whatever injuries Fleuri had inflicted upon his foe were seemingly undone as it struck down one of its own hunting beasts and seemingly drew power from the corpse to turn itself into a bestial monstrosity. Fanilly's entrance into the fight, swiftly and literally disarming their foe, could not have come at a better time.

"Perfect timing, Captain," Fleuri spoke- the first words he had spoken since going into battle against the Houndmaster- yet still not breaking his silence towards his foe.

The contrast between the houndmaster sacrificing its own pets to strengthen itself to the knight-captain coming to the aid of one of her followers was poetic. If he made it out of this, Fleuri resolved to ensure that the scribes and bards did not forget that detail. All the more reason to ensure that they won this fight.

His foe was much larger and stronger now. Even with the loss of one arm, it may very well be able to swing the axe with more force than it previously could with two arms. It was also more inhuman, more beast-like, and its last attack showed that its fighting style had similarly become more monstrous.

A changing battle required changing tactics.

Fleuri maneuvered to the left side of Fanilly. With an ally at his side, he could no longer make the same wide sweeps with his sword, and would have to change things up a bit. This was not a problem- adaptability and flexibility in battle were both things that the Mirror Knight had impressed upon him during their training. His next move- bringing his sword to his hip as if sheathed, then attacking in a faux-unsheathing motion, bringing it around to the left the moment the dogs came into range and then continuing towards the houndmaster in front of him- was a technique from another one of his mentors, one he had the fortune of learning from in both the real world and Merilia's plane.

With the two of them fighting this fae, with the training and tests that Merilia had subjected them to, surely they shall prevail.

Even knowing that the trapper could conjure impediments out of thin air, Renar hadn't expected a goddesses-damned pit of all things. Another data point to mark in his understanding of this foe, though one that came almost too late. Clearly, he was underestimating this wretch.

And then there was a torch. Fitting, with the fire theme. Concerning, with how much pitch he was currently standing in. The moments the trapper took to raise the torch and hurl it passed by in slow motion to Renar. He could predict the trajectory, analyze how much time he had before it landed and the flame spread. The pitch he was standing in would need a moment to get out of, but that was one he didn't have. A throwing knife wasn't guaranteed to knock the torch off course. Think, Renar, think!

Inspiration struck. One swift motion ripped the orcish cloak he bore as a treasure and trophy from his back and hurled it at the torch, sending both mantle and flame flying back towards the Wild Huntsman. The now-flaming cloak falling over the trapper's face ought to distract him, though Renar followed up by shifting the grip on his poleaxe and hurling it speartip-first like a javelin straight for the fae's chest. He didn't expect it to kill, and quickly clambered out of the pit as best he was able.

By the time the trapper dealt with the twin nuisances he'd just been assailed with, Renar could be seen standing before him, sword drawn in one hand, his other free. The Bastard of Brias radiated cold fury as his off-hand pointed towards the trapper. More specifically, his flaming cloak.

"Mine for the taking." He snarled, his fury moreso at himself for being put in a position where he'd had to sacrifice one of his most prized possessions. That cloak had been material proof of his first true triumph at dueling an orcish warchief and earning him a position in the Iron Rose. To have had to sacrifice it to escape from a situation of his own making was galling. For that, the trapper would pay a debt in more than blood. The flaming cloak would serve to sate his rage.

Renar surged forward, a pair of vials suddenly in his free hand. A clench of his fist, and they shattered. As soon as he was in range, he hurled the sand and crushed glass he held straight towards the trapper's helm and visor, where the blinding powder had proven effective previously. Another step forward, and he held his sword in mordhau, aiming to smash the crossguard of his sword into the trapper's helm and head.

Gertrude didn't really expect any heat from Rozenalt because of how in his face Tyaethe was, but apparently he had enough room to launch some tendrils at them. His mistake. Any focus not on the Vampire was a tally on their side. As far as Gertrude was concerned, that bolt had set the fight in Tyaethe's favor twice. Once for the hit, and once for Rozenalt's reprisal. She just hoped Tyaethe wasn't too prideful to seize the advantage. She could already see an angry Vampire in her future, but what was one more old lady yelling at her because she thought she knew better?

Gertrude had some confidence that Rozenalt's attack wasn't an insignificant one. She wasn't foolish, but she also wasn't unskilled. Normally she would have tried to eradicate the thing before it became a threat, but Rolan had already fired at it. If his concoction didn't destroy the tendrils, it would at least make them easier to see coming. The man acted quickly, if nothing else. Well, at least she wouldn't have to waste her spell on them.

It was a little handy to have such support.

"Sodding-!"

And it came at a good time, because the gigantic flying worm that leapt at them from the woods was probably the better target for the spell she had been chanting. Thankfully, she was in the midst of speeding up after Rozenalt's attack. She didn't know how fast or maneuverable the beast was, but she'd hit it with everything she'd been storing right from the jump before deciding how to evade further.

She'd flown straight into a bloody Dragon's mouth. This maw did not scare her.

After Rolan exploded a bottle of fire in the beast's face, Gertrude used the obscuring flames as cover to take her shot.

"Meteor Light," Gertrude roared, grabbing her broom white-knuckled as she accelerated and flipped around in the air. An immense beam of light shot forth, aiming to pierce the beast diagonally from bottom to top along the length. She didn't know where the organs were, or even if the creature had them, so she'd get as much of the insides as she could while entering and exiting through flesh.

Gerard Segremors

He cut to the side again, now recognizing the flicker for what it was, and pressed in behind another swing. Less a hurried throwing of the self now, closer to a true sidestep, but continuing to create that strong angle all the same.

A fruitful endeavor, this approach— from it, he had gained a sense of the ever-important initiative swinging his way, as she was forced to give up ground rather than continue the exchange after feeling the impact of his blade upon hers. He'd learned that, for all her ability to project the cutting edge of her blade onto the realm itself, he did outpower her, and a prolonged engagement wasn't remotely in her interests. Instead, she elected to spin away and try to reset her distance before he managed to really tie her up. Annoying, but not impenetrable. A quicker step-in might have done it, but in the face of a nimble foe he didn't want to risk overcommitment—

So instead, he would next attack the mobility itself, and begin cutting away at the space she had left to drift through. Past her, he eyed the treeline, measuring its distance against the direction The Pale Lady had chosen. So long as they maintained this rhythm with one another in their little dance, he could maneuver her into a corner— and as she felt the pressure to pile, she'd inevitably show more of her cards, lest she run up against one of those black-bark pillars and be stuck at the end of his power.

Through that process, while he had only this much to work with from her... a moment on the back foot was a moment where she was forced to react rather than cut him up— a margin he could iterate on. As she intercepted his blade with another of those nigh-instantaneous snap-tos and rode off the impact, he chased her exit with not quite a flick of the wrist, but a quick reversal with his false edge.

It wasn't nearly complete compared to Rui's slices, let alone whatever the hell the Pale Lady's deal was, but nonetheless a crude and hammerlike arc of wind rolled off the steel— much befitting his tutelage endured, the last time he was in such a realm.

---

Fionn had never expected himself to be sharing a laugh with one of the frontrunners of the Midnight Hunt...and yet, now it had happened. "If you think that's funny, just wait until you see how this ends!" Blade twirled around blade, small testing beats trying to determine if either combatant was getting too relaxed, lightening up their guard just a little too much. The Falconer's blade twirled around one last time, the faintest shift in the angle being all the warning Fionn had as it tightened its grip to push in for the thrust.

He whirled his blade under again, this time displacing the thrust high as the alien being lunged forwards. As the beast had expected; the glinting claws came for him as they came in close, pressed in almost to a true grapple. Fionn, however, was not yet keen to test his mail against the Falconer's second weapon. He stepped far to his left, quickly beyond the swipe of the claws. His blade, raised over his head, drooped, the rapier's edge sliding off as he turned.

His left hand came free, grabbing at the fae monster's upper arm. The end of his hilt came over its wrist, hooking the joint of its sword arm between his own wrist and the handle of his sword. And as he completed his turn, he pulled, hard, aiming to snap the creature's arm across his own body.

"Nnngh-!"

The tendrils receded just as swiftly as they'd emerged, a combination of the acid and the blow just struck across his front making a continued counter attack from the Bloody Lord impossible.

The heavy armor rattled as he took a step back, bringing his great, cursed sword back up to bear.

He'd been struck. A blow severe enough to visibly mar his thick armor, possibly even split it, if only slightly. In a flash, his blade leaped out, aiming to push Dame Tyaethe back, to force even the slightest distance---

Or perhaps, as a feint.

Every gap in his armor writhed.

A scraping sound came from within that skull-like face.

A torrent of thorny veins exploded from every possible spot, from his eye sockets, between his skeletal jaws, from each tiny space between the plates of his armor. It shredded the night air, ripping its way viciously towards the vampire paladin. The abominable thing that was Lord Rozenalt could no longer take what he saw as half-measures.

If his armor had been marred that badly, then he had to do everything he could to slaughter his opponent and lead the Midnight Hunt to is bloodstained victory.

Tyaethe batted away the first cut almost contemptuously… and leaving her too close to retreat. The vampire's defence against the thorns looked less like someone trying to wield a sword, and more a constant blur of steel, flashing crimson, and pale white. No way to easily back up, too limited in her tools to just destroy the thorns en masse, and too pressed for space to simply dodge everything – but fighting through it all the same.

"Ahahahahahah! Come on, Rozenalt, haven't you realised? I'm left handed," the girl taunted, finally beating back the veiny assault. Her sword, herself, the floor, Rozenalt – all coated in a sticky mass of red ichor. Was it the vampire's blood? Was it Rozenalt's? It was impossible to say at this point.

The arm cast away in the conflict was undoubtedly Tyaethe's, as was the blood pouring from the stump. Yet still, she grinned, flicking it dismissively, "Really, you think this matters?"

Dripping blood snapped taut, a thick red rope joining the bleeding shoulder and discarded limb and snapping shut. More boiled, shadows writhing and reforming the missing sinew… but she had already lunged forwards before that finished, red eyes gleaming. Come on. Do it.

Rozenalt thrust his blade, and---

---

The monstrous worm faltered, sinuous body writhing in the air and twisting as the flames burst inside of its mouth, igniting its strange, inky flesh. But it didn't fall, despite the fact that it was now burning inside the bizarre creature was managing to maintain its flight, ascending once more and resuming its pursuit, the gaping void yawning ever wider even as flames licked its innards, the abominable shape tearing its way through the sky.

But the flames had distracted it just long enough.

Its ascent was greeted by a thunderous sound, like the echoing of a hammer striking a chapel's bell as the blue light briefly illuminated the entire battlefield. As spell made to rip through powerful armor and tear apart even monstrous foes, Meteor Light cleaved through the black of night in an instant and seared its way through the monstrous fae creature's flesh.

Its myriad wings ceased to move, its massive body slowly drifting towards the ground, more like a dead leaf then a thing of flesh and blood.

Below, the knights had been joined by their surprise allies in the nithyr, clashing with the Midnight Hunt in ferocious battle.

It appeared as if the skies had been, for the moment, cleared.

@Eisenhorn@Octo

---

The birdman hissed as its arm was extended beyond even its natural limits, the light bones offering dismally little resistance to the maneuver. Even so, even in this position, it seemed that the Falconer had another trick up its sleeves -- or should that be, over its sleeves?

With a ripple, the feathered cloak sharpened, each quill straightening, hardening, turning it into a shimmering coat of daggers. One that Fionn was now pressing himself tightly against in their grapple.

Sword, claws, cloak, falcon -- even with one weapon disabled, it had no shortage of others to call upon.

@The Otter

---

The smouldering cloak once again burst into flame as the flaming brand was sent flying back towards it, the embers catching with unnatural vigour and engulfing the fae huntsman in a shroud of rippling flame. Not enough to burn through the orcish cloak, not fast enough -- but perhaps enough to weaken it so that the butchering knife that had been conjured from nowhere could slash through and clear its vision.

This time, the flames didn't die down. It was much harder to see if the trapper was truly blinded, the trap clamping down on the polearm could have been merely an accident as it threw off the remnants of the orcish cloak, trap and polearm discarded too, but...

The burning man caught the swung hilt of the sword on its knife, the oppressive heat rolling off its figure. Finally, it seemed to be engaging, not falling back on tricks and traps.

@Psyker Landshark

---

The Houndmaster stalled, blank mask looking down at its severed arm as if perplexed that it had been so easily cut free through the leather. Then it gave a lopsided shrug and shoved its body down, stump digging into one of the man-faced dogs. The creature flickered, body rippling... then exploding in a shower of gore.

Not that the replacement arm looked much like a man's. Huge, covered in shaggy black fur, clawed, and far too long. Thick enough for it to wield as a shield against Fleuri's arcing blows before using it to pull the entire Houndmaster forward, axe carving around to try and split the knight in two with another crushing blow. No finesse. No delicacy. But brute strength and an arm that, even pouring blood after being carved through, seemed none the worse for wear.

Not that this gave the Captain a free pass, ever more of the dogs pouring from the trees... or were they even dogs, now? As their master grew more bestial, the distinction between them appeared to be shifting, bodies lengthening and twisting, faces finally growing muzzled. There was a silent co-ordination there, the man beasts truly attempting to attack from multiple angles in a flash of fangs and teeth that left no blind spots aside from the one her own ally created.

Fanilly's breath hitched when she saw the manner in which the monstrous hunter had mended its injury. It had slain one of its own hounds, and in the process gorily reconstructed its severed limb before they could fully capitalize on the injury.

Worse still, the hounds themselves were growing in number, and seemed to be transforming as well and becoming even more terrible, resembling their Master more with each passing moment.

Clenching her teeth, the knight-captain sucked in a deep breath. She'd have to thin their numbers a little, if only for a moment.

"Sir Fleuri, hold out for just a moment longer!"

Ducking under snapping jaws, Fanilly thrust her blade upwards, puncturing a hound-man's head from below before stepping back and drawing her blade free. In nearly the same motion she brought her blade swiftly along the front of another, cutting through its chest and severing an arm. She had to thin them out just a little before she could focus on the greater hunter again!

Even if their numbers would be replaced, letting them go unanswered for too long would lead to them being overrun! They weren't armored, and it didn't seem as if they could survive as much damage as their warping master. That meant a single stroke to the right spot would surely be enough.

Fanilly spun in place, suddenly shifting attention away from the hounds and throwing herself at the beastly hunter's blindspot. Killing two would have to be enough, if she could land this blow and cut into the monster's body, it might leave a good opening for Sir Fleuri!

She could feel claws rake over her back, nicking her by slipping into a thin gap in her armor at the shoulder, but she'd thinned their numbers just enough to ensure she wouldn't be instantly overwhelmed.

She had to reach---!

@Crimson Paladin

---

It almost seemed as if, for the barest moment, the Pale Lady's eyes widened behind her veil. She hadn't expected it, truly. The arc of wind cleaving the night air---

It was by only the barest breadth that she evaded, the edge of her veil being torn apart but the rushing hammer of wind and sound. It was immediately clear she'd judged her opponent to be unable to produce such an offense, and had nearly paid for it with a loss of the duel.

Her bare foot came to rest upon the grass, and in perhaps the strangest gesture of all, the Pale Lady bowed her head.

It was hard to understand what would motivate such a thing, especially given the situation. In the middle of battle, surely this would lead to her death.

---And yet, it appeared almost as if she was attempting to give a wordless apology. Did she perhaps feel as if her underestimation of her opponent was offensive? Regardless, unless instantly attacked in the followup, she had seemingly taken the opportunity to respond without violence.

For only a moment.

Regardless of how such an action could be interpreted, a strange grinding sound emerged from her left palm. Far more swiftly then the first of her weapons had been drawn, a white point pierced the skin and emerged into the night air, its spiked, edged form distinctly resembling the first of the two 'swords'. She had a second weapon, a shorter spine-blade that complimented the one she had drawn from her chest.

@HereComesTheSnow

---

The recoiling and retreating tendrils from the Bloody Lord tempted Rolan to give the bastard a very rude gesture, but given the current situation he had plenty enough to keep him busy without taunting Rozenalt from on high. Mainly that the gigantic worm had not been fully dissuaded from continuing its assault on the flying duo, though he took some satisfaction that it was very much not enjoying the experience of a maw filled with alchemist fire. Seemed Gertrude had a plan, though, and he clung to the broom for his life as she shouted some spell, Meteor Light, and spun them around far faster than he could ever imagine any living steed manage to do. Never mind they were flying which narrowed down 'rideable steed' quite significantly, but he kept himself from tumbling off the broomstick, which set him up to see the devastation wrought upon the worm. Right, that was that he supposed.

"A pleasant distraction, but alas, back to work."

Rolan doubted he could have chosen a less fitting word than pleasant, at least at the particular moment, but since they had clear skies, at least for a moment, he could refocus his attention below. Tyaethe and Rozenalt were in such a bloody mess of a duel he wasn't sure another bolt would even register to either of them, he had already created an opening which had invited retaliation. His part in that duel was done, not that he needed to give her more of a reason to tell him off later. Ser Fionn was grappling with his foe, a cloak of daggers forming that made things complicated but anything he loosed would risk Ser Fionn as well, mulling over his options as he analyzed the battlefield while spanning and loading his crossbow. Ser Renar was forcing an actual engagement, such as it was, while Ser Gerard seemed to have actually gotten some response from his foe .The Captain and Ser Fleuri, however, were in danger of being overrun by the sheer number of hounds. Shouldering his crossbow, he fitted a vial of the caustic smoke to the bolt and loosed it towards the edge of the woods, right where the hounds were coming from. From there, Rolan didn't bother with any more alchemical tricks, not now, and focused instead on volume of fire, though he preferred to do this on solid ground he didn't have the luxury now and would have to trust Gertrude and her broom.

"Hold us steady, the Captain is overextending herself..."

The steady thrum of his crossbow reached the fastest rate that Rolan could maintain, picking off beast after wretched beast, focusing on clearing the flanks of the Captain and Ser Fleuri. He could only maintain this kind of volume of fire from a stable position, cradling his crossbow with one arm and using the other to span and load in one smooth motion, before loosing with the hand that was in the ideal position from the cradling of his crossbow, and repeating. The normal musings were clamped down on, the repetitive drilling of span, load, inhale, aim, exhale, loose, repeat being the only thing on his mind while engaging in this particular crossbow drill. He wouldn't match a bow, but he could keep up in a pinch, even if it would be taxing after awhile.

---

One benefit to armour was that it made it very hard to get cut. Even a simple mail hauberk, something that many knights considered entirely obsolete compared to the plate that had become so much more common in past centuries, provided much the same level of protection in that area. As Fionn pulled the Falconer's arm far past the point of breaking as he completed his turn, beyond even where a human arm was ever meant to go, he could feel the cloak stiffen beneath his gauntleted hands and against his body as the feathers turned to knives and rippled outwards.

Luckily for him, they couldn't get through the chain. Had they been stuck out already as he forced his body in to the unnatural fighter, then certainly, he'd have been stuck like a pig. But as they tried to push outwards, with him against them they had nowhere to go. Instead, the slight pressure was just warning enough for him to break contact. Let go of the arm, unhook his sword from the creature's wrist, step away quickly—

One of the feathers swung up just as he pulled away, cutting across his cheek.

You think you get to make me bleed my own blood like that?

He'd had to push himself nearly back-to-back with the beast to break its arm entirely, having to fight against the inhuman thing's flexibility. He landed on his right foot as he stepped away, spun the last quarter-turn on the ball of his foot as he took his sword back in both hands, swinging it down to sever the Falconer's gauntleted left arm at the elbow.

Gerard Segremors

There was a beat offset within the broader rhythm, a void that filled itself with the sound of steely sabatons grinding to a sudden halt as Gerard's opponent, some dozen meters away at most, bowed her head and gazed into the dirt. Behind his visor, Gerard's eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what had brough about the untimely pause— one thing he had gleaned from their short exchanges was that the fae standing opposite of him wasn't nearly so generous in her defensive lapses as to offer a dropped guard freely. On the back foot as she was, there was too much risk of being overrun.

Plainly put, had he kept going, he would have overrun her and sent her veiled head rolling. But he hadn't. What had he spotted that compelled his instincts... ah.

It was in the cast of her shoulders, the way her brow hung, and the slow drop of the sternum that accompanied. Bringing her body forward, just so, as though making minor offering. Half a decade of surrounding himself with obscured faces, masks of black leather in the place of her moonspun white veil— all the same, it had left him with a particular skill in reading the language unspoken, that of posture, gesture, and movement. It wasn't supplication, nor was it surrender— but after he had revealed the card he had been unwittingly holding... contrition.

An apology. For what, he couldn't say without words, but nonetheless it appeared she felt it owed. Owed enough that she was willing to risk her victory for its' sake. He recalled her dispatch of interlopers, her presentation of arms— She believed she had dishonored the bout in some way, then?

The moment hung in the air, heedless of the battle close by, as he abided this wish, lowering his blade. Only proper that he give her that moment of apology, in such case...

And then, from her palm, that sound again. The grinding of bone— another blade! Already, the first spur of white was rising from her palm! In another moment, she'd have a second tool to slice the world—

Action filled his frame, and he burst once more into the fight.

Her apology had been accepted, he had every reason to grant her that grace— if after the moment of understanding had passed she had seen fit to draw another weapon, that could only mean she had not deemed herself as giving the threat he posed proper respect.

A mistake that he was unwilling to repeat, no matter how it weighed upon the mind of his foe.

His longsword whipped up high from its lowered position, another hammer of wind cascading forth as the Pale Lady drew her spinal tap dagger, filling the space between them with another wall of force immediately. He had a hunch. If she had drawn this thing in response to that attack, and it assumed the same properties as her long blade—

He dashed forth, blade at the ready, coming in the wake of it as it too chewed through distance— and then, pre-emptive of even the flicker, sidestepped to that familiar, dominant angle. She had the attack right on top of her, and him coming in close behind— something she could easily solve by slicing the former in half with her second blade, and threatening to counter the latter in the same stroke.

In committing to that, forced by the imminent threat or otherwise, she would give up a tempo. One he could use to press his way into his ideal range— and keep forcing her back onto the treeline. She was hardly far at all, and once he had her pinned there, he could end this— either by running her into a solid boundary with the tree trunks, or by forcing her behind the thicket, where he could turn the turf against her, blinding her behind the veil of the moonlit forest.

There was no time to waste. This was his chance to blunt her advantage!

Fleuri Jodeau

Not even having its arm cut off was enough to slow down this fae. With a sacrifice of another one of its dogs, it grew a new arm, a monstrous, bestial thing that was tough enough to block Fleuri's blow. As long as it had dogs to sacrifice, it would be able to continue to heal its injuries- and each time it became more monstrous. With just two dogs, it had turned from a largely humanoid axeman to a monstrous, asymmetrical man-beast.

Fanilly moved to intercept the dogs closing in, swiftly felling two of them. Fleuri wasn't sure if the houndmaster's powers enabled them to heal from consuming already-slain beasts, but thinning the pack would take the pressure off of them regardless.

The captain's orders were to hold out a little longer, and by Reon, Fleuri was determined to not let her down.

The fae continued to focus its efforts on Fleuri. The strike that came was feral and lacking in technique- perhaps a sign that its mind was being affected by its monstrous transformation. As it brought its axe down, the knight intercepted the weapon with his greatsword, deflecting it into the ground to Fleuri's right, as to keep himself as far away as possible from the reach of the huntmaster's free arm and not give himself an easy opening to be grabbed.

He pulled his sword back, assuming a stance for an attack and striking one of the hounds in the face with the pommel in the process. In fixating on Fleuri, the houndmaster had left itself blind to Fanilly, who was now moving to strike- if her next attack did not finish their foe off, Fleuri would make certain to capitalize on whatever distraction it might offer.

Gertrude allowed herself a rare smile. It wasn't necessarily that she enjoyed the killing, though she did at that, but the felling of that great flying worm emboldened her. She was the last person anyone would accuse of low self-confidence, but she wasn't sure she could have done it in one hit before. Did she get stronger?

Then Rolan piped up, and Gertrude was forced to consider that she probably only got the clean hit due to the smoke and flame Rolan had provided. Otherwise, the creature would likely have evaded a little better. Perhaps she was stronger, but the backup wasn't entirely unhelpful.

"Haaah? Is that it?" Gertrude shot back, obviously displeased with the man's reaction to her amazing magic, "you can cower, if you'd like. It's not every day someone is treated to front row seats for my unparalleled spellcasting and not also dead."

Though Gertrude's words were displeased and argumentative, she slowed at Rolan's request so that he could take his shots. They'd proven their air superiority by felling the worm, and she doubted many more creatures would want to challenge them after the display. From her vantage point, she could see the entire battlefield (at least, what wasn't obscured by foliage) and determined that each fight seemed relatively close but still in their favor. Rolan had pretty quickly determined the standout in the Houndmaster, due to the sheer numbers he commanded. He was shameless in using this advantage, but at least prideful or barbaric enough to get into close quarters.

This would likely be the decision that saw him slain.

While Rolan worked on the hounds, Gertrude looked for an opportunity. Once again, she didn't have the aim for something purely destructive. Fleuri and Fanilly were sticking to the Houndmaster, which was the correct decision, but it put them in the line of fire. Then again, damage wasn't their problem. It was numbers and regeneration. Rolan was on numbers, now...

Gertrude held her spell. The next time the Houndmaster received a crippling strike, Gertrude would hit the wound with a Crystal Prison. By covering the injury over in ice, she figured, it might keep him from grafting using the few mutts that might break through. At least long enough to fatally wound him.