A change in demeanor. In tactics. What Renar was doing was working, then. He was pressing a knight of the Wild Hunt. Was its weak point the eyes? Every attempt he'd made at blinding had triggered a reaction, and this was the first time the flaming wretch had bothered to stand and engage rather than fall back on traps and tricks.

The problem was he still didn't know what arcane rules this trapper was operating off of. Did this hunter's power only work based on line of sight? Impossible to tell directly, considering the helmet, but there were other ways to confirm the matter. The wider battle was still considered, of course.

The briefest glance he could spare of the field indicated that Tyaethe was still more or less fully in control of her duel. If she was ending it with Rozenalt, he had to take a chance to claim victory of his own. At the start of this battle, Renar would have been content with simply fending the flaming trapper off. That was before he'd lost his favorite trophy to the godsdamned reprobate.

Renar maintained the blade lock, giving a devil's grin from beneath the visor of his helmet as he memorized the exact position the Wild Hunter was placed in. His free hand revealed another article from his bag of tricks, one that fell to the ground and exploded into a cloud of white smoke. With the smoke bomb in play to further disorient the flaming fae, Renar broke the lock and drew his sword back before taking it in both hands and thrusting forward, aiming from where he knew the neck had been but a moment prior. Time to finish this.

Rozenalt's wretched blade sunk in without any resistance,the vampire giving up her feigned attempt to block the attack. Exactly as she had planned. Before the wraith could consider wrenching his blade free, one of her hands snapped forward to grab his wrist, eerie red and black growths disappearing into a conjured gauntlet. Holding him close. Letting even more of Tyaethe's blood on top of that already shed crawl further up and over the Hunt's leader.

"Incende," she hissed, voice just a whisper, but enough to complete the simplest of all magical tricks: igniting a fire. Just the tiniest flicker of flame, enough to light a candle, or prepared tinder... or, it seemed, for all of her lost blood to come alight in a dim red glow, even as it continued to climb. "I win, Rozenalt."

"You win?!" Rozenalt's echoing voice erupted from his armor in laughter, "Have you lost your wits in despair?"

Caring little for the hand on his wrist, the abominable Leader of the Midnight Hunt adjusted his grip, preparing to wrench his blade upwards.

"You've won nothing but death and suffering!"

Tyaethe's crazed smile only grew wider, watching more and more of the monster before her get coated in the smouldering embers. More than enough. This time, when she opened her mouth, it wasn't Veltish she spoke, but Talderian. Ancient Talderian, the kind only kept around for a few historic purposes even then... or certain religious rites, even if newer translations were more common. "O Exalted Sun, we seek thy blessing for this pyre. To thy eternal care we entrust the soul, and to the skies the mortal remains..."

A funeral rite. Had it been just anyone reciting it, nothing would have happened. If there had been only living creatures caught in the smoulering fire, nothing would have happened. But here... Tyaethe was a priest, and in many regards both of them were dead.

The dim red glow erupted into a blaze of unearthly gold.

"Praying?"

The mocking question echoed from the Bloody Lord's armor, followed by deep laughter.

"I suppose that's all you have left, isn't it?! What's that supposed to achieve?!"

His grip tightened, and---

It was in that single moment that Lord Rozenalt realized what was about to happen. It was a mere instant before the golden flames erupted across his body. That single, miniscule moment of realization that dawned in the Leader of the Midnight Hunt.

Heat washed over him. Divine flames surged across his very being, scorching the red and black, writhing thing within the armor.

An agonized roar ripped itself free from Rozenalt's body as his very existence began to burn.

He had become the very epitome of that which Reon despised. A malevolent, wicked thing that used his undeath to continue every vile act that he had carried out in life.

And now, her divine solar flames washed over him.

"You—!"

The ragged voice that emerged from the skull was no longer composed, as golden fire erupted from its eyesockets, spasming tendrils stretching from gaps in the armor. The bound spirits on Rozenalt's blade began to crumble.

"You bitch... You... I'll kill you---!"

He tried to grip his blade once more. Tried to reach for the paladin. But he was already coming apart.

Reon's golden fire was not merely burning him. It was denying the very root concept that defined his existence. The violation of the normal law of this world, that things that are dead cannot walk again. The assertion of the cycle of life and death and the denial of the concept of the living dead was eating away at his very core.

The Bloody Lord Rozenalt realized this, and knew terror.

Tyaethe released his decaying arm, wrenching herself back and off the sword. Soaked in blood as she was, most of her figure was similarly engulfed in the golden flames… but where Rozenalt was all but melting, she seemed to be lightly burning at best, even if her regeneration was struggling slightly against it. "Ah… not time yet, not for me. But you?"

The paladin clasped her sword firmly, grinning as she lunged forwards, sword tracing the same sweeping arc that had first scored his armour… only this time she was closer, and the divine fire that ravaged him dripped off of the blessed blade.

Compared to being burnt to ash, the bisection was a mercy.

As Rozenalt's armor parted, an unearthly screech filled the clearing as a writhing mass of shadows was revealed within. The sound grew louder, over all sounds of battle, before being cut off with a noise almost like the ringing of a bell.

The darkness burst and shattered, a column of golden light erupting into the air.

All that remained was a burning skeleton, crumbling sofly into ash as it fell to the ground.

She'd done it. Rozenalt was vanquished. Oh, there was still the rest of the Hunt to drive off, but…

Amongst scattered pools of holy radiance, flesh cracking and burning, the vampire laughed.

---

The blade sunk home, piercing through neck with ease. It was almost as if there was nothing—

That was all the warning before a gout of flame shot the length of the weapon in retribution, more a burning lance than actual fire. A second pulse of warmth pushed away the the smoke cloud, showing the Trapper once again, flames occasionally bursting forth from the holes torn through its neck.

Up and down its form, every seam or crack in the armour let forth a shower of sparks as it pushed in to attack, the fey hunter's grip of whatever humanity it had assumed visibly slipping as joints moved in a too loose, too fluid manner. The positives? It clearly didn't know its way about a knife in truth, and the threat seemed more that it might simply grab Renar.

The downside was the twitches of its fingers that didn't even pretend at an honest activation of a trap, barbs now just shooting from the air with no shroud but the wispy smoke that formed a second cloak about the monster.

@Psyker Landshark

---

Left ignored for most of their fight, the Falconer's spectral companion flung itself down to slam against the sword. It burst into nothing, but it was enough of a delay, enough of a deflection in course, for the hunter to twist and use its gauntlet to deflect the blow inside and buy itself a few steps of space where…

It bowed? The manoeuvre was a little strange with a broken arm, but this was clearly a gesture of respect.

The fact that its sole falcon hadn't been replaced by one, or two, but by a baker's dozen all hanging in the air may have been why: 'this is everything I can do, show me what you have'. And then, they launched, coming in from as many blind angles as they could, the Falconer following front-on, not hiding its approach in the slightest.

@The Otter

---

The Houndmaster slowly turned to fix its eyeless face on Fanilly, only then sliding back off the sword. The blood dripping onto the ground before Gertrude froze the wound was black and sticky, which only added to the bizarre nature of their enemy as it grabbed one of the dying hounds anyway in its oversized claw, hoisting it overhead and crushing it.

Blood showered on the Houndmaster.

And its form tore. It was the work of moments, but something about the sight wanted them to see every detail, remember how the increasingly inhuman form rippled and stretched its way free of humanoid constraints, grotesquely stretching into a feral, horned thing, half lupine and half malformed goat abomination – now far and away the largest thing in the clearing, nearly three times the height of a man even twisted in and hunched. All over, its black fur was slick with blood, every healed injury so far now a weeping sore or grotesque shard of bone…

It let out an unearthly scream and lunged. Nothing about its movements were human, now; it was all speed and feral aggression. But maybe the Houndmaster was fast enough, its lopsided frame massive enough, that could carry it.

@Octo@Crimson Paladin@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

Abomination was the only way she could possibly describe it.

The Houndmaster had warped beyond all recognition into some sort of beast. It wasn't a familiar creature in the least, but a monster that looked like it was born from someone's nightmare. It was coated in blood, howling and lashing out, having absorbed the essence of what was left of its hounds.

It was barely even comprehensible, now.

---And yet.

They still had a duty to perform.

Fanilly could feel her heart pounding as she sprang back, sucking in a deep breath as she raised her blade. It was terrifying, seeing this thing stretch and twist horrendously into its new form. And yet she couldn't let that give her a moment's pause. She had to give her knights orders, she had to fight.

To begin with, Lady Gertrude and Sir Rolan joining this particular fight suddenly opened up a set of new options. Ones that were incredibly fortunate, given the size and power their enemy had reached.

"Lady Gertrude! Sir Rolan!" cried the knight-captain, "Bombard it from above! Keep hurting it, aim for its limbs!"

Even if it could regenerate, the monster wouldn't be able to move so freely with that awkward body when its limbs were continuously under assault. On top of that, the mage and the knight were out of reach attacking from above. If it had lost most of its intelligence, then maybe that could keep it distracted.

Regardless, Fanilly had already begun her approach, ducking low and aiming to drag her blade swiftly along the unseelie creature's flank in hopes of opening a long, deep wound!

---

---It likely couldn't have gone better. For all her mobility, for all she was light on her feet, the Pale Lady had been placed into a situation where she would struggle to come up with another answer to this attack.

The shorter of her two blades split the air, and with it, seemingly split the world. The cleaving edge cut apart the burst of wind. It was obviously her intention. Her counter to such an attack, her way of treating her opponent seriously when she felt she had not properly done so prior.

Her feet gently moved, almost like a dance. But there was no denying her realization at just what Sir Gerard's strategy had become, as she found herself forced to meet his blade with her own, forced back once more, forced against the treeline.

And yet even as she was forced back, she still had one final assault up her sleeve.

A gentle flick of one wrist.

Then the other.

And then again, a dozen times over.

The world was filled not with slashes that cut it, but with hard, visible light, hurtling towards Sir Gerard and cutting off all avenues but to answer it directly.

It was a test of understanding.

Her opponent would surpass this assault and defeat her, or be torn to ribbons.

For indeed, it was impossible, even with two blades and two arms, to completely cut herself off from her enemy in that swift span of time.

If her opponent could understand that, and could see the path---

---Then it was her defeat.

@HereComesTheSnow

---

"Cowering is, at the moment, a fast way to a long drop and sudden stop. Besides, would you rather have a half considered praise now, or more thought out praise at a later point?" Rolan wasn't looking at Gertrude as she shot him that displeased look, operating at a level of compartmentalization that left him fairly deadpan, given the generally unpleasant nature of everything going on with the Wild Hunt currently. While he couldn't exactly pay attention to every fight going on, given the need to focus on putting down hound after hound, the literal light show that started from the duel between Tyaethe and Rozenalt forcing his attention due to the almost blinding amount of light, even from this distance. Wincing briefly as the column of light and deafening screeching finally faded, only to be replaced by the paladin's laughter.

"At least she is having a good time, and to think I wasted quality poison on him..." Glancing back down in time to see the Houndmaster drench himself in the blood of his own pack, and begin to come apart at the damned seams. Oh, great, more wretched abominations that the forsaken woods seemed determined to spit out at them, he was getting quite tired of each nightmarish amalgamation of flesh, shadow, and sinew trying to outdo the last in an effort to take its place in his impending nightmares. Continuing to stitch its own wounds together, or ignore them completely, as previous wounds showed no signs of even impeding its newfound grotesque power. Being relatively safe from on high was cold comfort, reaching towards his alchemical bag as the Captain shouted her orders, confirming what he intended to do. Cripple the beast, slow it down, and open it up for the killing blow. Suited him fine, if the thing wanted to keep healing, he would just have to use something he had been saving for armor but should work just as well on flesh.

"...As you order, Captain. Shall we, then?" A pointless question, but his voice carried between the noise enough to alert the Captain her orders had been heard, and gave him a few moments to prepare. A flask of acid, an evolution on the experiments he had been conducting before they departed after seeing the effects of aqua regia on metal, and while it was intended for armor, flesh would likely feed the reaction just as well. Regenerating flesh? Well this was a rare luxury he supposed, since testing on meat was not something he could casually carry out. Aiming and watching for a moment that the beast was in no position to evade, he launched a bolt at one of its hind legs, aiming to shatter the flask across its joint and embed the bolt, at least until the bolt was eaten away by the acidic payload it carried. Once loosed, he resumed his steady rate of fire from before, making a mental note that he was running increasingly low on crossbow bolts, and pretty much entirely out of offensive alchemical mixtures, with the lengthening conflict only making the issue that much more dire. Each shot was aimed at joints, tracking the erratic and hurried movements, confident that while he couldn't kill it, a joint locked up with a crossbow bolt would slow it for however long it took to break the bolt loose.

Gerard Segremors

He surged in, crashing into her space in the instants she dealt with the wind hammer, and forced her back again. And again, and again! Sparks flew as steel rang out against bone, driving his prey back, forcing her to concede, concede, concede all the ground she had left, if only to buy herself a moment to reset again, to diffuse the pressure— but to no avail.

In gaining that burst of initiative, Gerard had held on with an iron grip, never allowing her room to breathe. It was a forcing sequence, putting him in all moments one step ahead, and both knew it. Faces obscured as they were, Gerard could still be certain, if only from her hurried parrying, that she was aware that she was running out of room. Cornered in a matter of moments. Back practically against the trunk of a great old blackened oak, which meant...

His grip tightened, and he drew his blade in close, siege engine crossing the moat. There would be one last, desperate measure coming, to get him the hell off of her—

And sure enough, there was a flicker, casting a line of light through the last vestiges of her range. Then another. Then another, the another, then another, both hands blurring, boxing away his chances to flank as he had before. That was fine, he had meant to finish this by pressing in with the tree behind, so why invite it?

The lines kept appearing before him, fast as his eyes at the height of their ability. Not boxing him in, he realized, funneling!

She was casting a net. Desperate as ever, banking it all on this last gambit— and in her haste, falling back to the same rhythm he had forced out of her, just in faster time. He had to beat it, find the lines she would have to leave for last—

There.

He touched upon it, the speed of Reon's bolts as they pierced the storm, and committed his being to filling that gap first. Summoning all the power to move, the wolf launched forward, its fang catching the silver light of the low moon!

And as the Pale Lady fought desperately to bring her dirk around in time, Gerard's left hand clamped around the wrist, catching her arm mid-swing and driving it back into the cold bark of the tree. The sword in his right, ever chasing mastery, was held before her throat. The sword was well inside the arc of hers; its' gleaming point only just brushing against the satin of her veil.

Checkmate. He drew in a breath.

"Yield," he spoke, firm and even. "You've shown me ample courtesy. I would repay it: I've no need of your life, Dame, only victory."

He could hear the crowing calls, the ringing bell of laughter from afar. The Roses had won.

There was no need to rid their foes of another Knight.

---

His blade was slapped away just in time to keep the Falconer from losing its entire unbroken arm. Each stepped away from the other, one to gain space, one to avoid any possible rapid reprisal; if he didn't have his gauntlets on, Fionn would've taken the moment to wipe some of the blood off of his cheek. Instead, he watched impassively as the creature gave him its semblance of a bow. If this were a legitimate duel, if he were facing something he didn't think had good odds of coming back with the next Hunt anyways—he may have returned the gesture. With the fight in the forest being what it was, the fae hunter's spectral companion having done what it could to save him, and, at the edges of his vision, more of them coming up...

The Falconer got the barest flick of a nod. It wouldn't back down, at least, but Fionn had been spoiling for a proper bout of single combat since before watching one enemy get cursed and choke right in front of him. Something he still had yet to receive.

He didn't bother to count the spectral birds hanging around him as they appeared. He had ways of dealing with them and their master—some more flashy, showing off, demonstrating skills beyond just swordplay. He was probably fast enough on his own to evade and cut them out of the air with little trouble. However, he felt like finishing this out as simply and quickly as possible. No longer playing a game with the Falconer and trying to have fun with it—just putting down this aspect of the Midnight Hunt at last.

"Gniye bristis."

He'd spent quite a bit of his mana earlier that day, but the time they'd had to rest meant that he could afford the little it took him to push his speed far beyond any normal limit for a few moments. He felt the energies suffuse his body, the world seeming to slow around him as the pace of his thoughts rapidly overtook everything else. He pushed forward instantly, rushing the Falconer. Maybe the fey creature could still follow him, but it would no doubt be quite surprised.

To anybody else that may have turned to see, it was like he disappeared in a blink, suddenly next to his target with one hand already on its light breastplate. In the moment they had to resolve that image, he'd already sent the Falconer flying. The hunter crashed through his spectral flock as they converged on the point where Fionn had been, knocking them from the air and continuing to slam into a tree.

The overly-tall hunter turned, tried to pull themselves up on the tree—and just as suddenly, the raven-dark sword appeared, vibrating slightly as it pinned the Falconer to the tree through the neck.

Fionn cut his spell off, coming back to normal speed as he walked up to his defeated opponent, placing one hand on the hilt of his borrowed weapon. "More sword work, fewer birds next time, yeah?" he said, conversationally. "Told you I'd take that head of yours, though." He ripped the sword back out of the tree, wrenching the Falconer's head off with it. Taking a short moment to catch his breath, he looked across the battlefield. The rest seemed to be dealing with everything alright, Gerard having already put his opponent in a position to either surrender or perish. Fleuri, Renar, Fanilly, Gertrude, Rolan—handling things well enough. The other knights were serving admirably against the rest of the Hunt. As he saw the source of the screeching that had filled the grove for a moment, though, and beheld the laughing vampire within, thoroughly coated in her own burning blood...

"Oh, bloody hell."

Rather quite the opposite, but that didn't change the phrasing. Sword in hand, he picked between the spots of flame to come up next to Tyaethe, kneeling down to look her in the eyes as he spun her to face him. "What do you think you're doing now?" he demanded with a stern tone. "Quit burning yourself right this instant!"

Being spun round in the middle of a battlefield nearly ended very poorly, the vampire grabbing the offending limb and nearly squeezing it to breaking point before she realised who it was. Poor awareness, maybe, but it wasn't like the remaining fey were clamouring to run through the spots of fire… or that she could hear something comparatively quiet over the sound of crackling flames and her own laughter.

Fortunately for Fionn, the fire lapping away from where it stuck to her skin was merely ticklish rather than all consuming. This didn't stop her from trying to glare a hole into his head. "Don't do that."

“I could, but whether I should isn't my choi—” the vampire cut off, frowning and focusing on the fire, muttering to herself in Ithillane, “_{‘I never asked you to, Yaya’, ‘This was your decision, you can end it,’ What am I meant to think when you make it burn? You don't need to communicate through fire sounds.}"

Letting go and waving her hand, the golden flames on her person cut off entirely, leaving only a perimeter burning to keep the Hunt from getting ideas. Not that she expected they would; without their leader, they ought to break into a rout any second now, once the last few notable presences were dead…

Despite none of Rozenalt's injuries sticking, Tyaethe looked quite the sight: her dress was basically a few singed scraps clinging to modesty, and the burns from the flame hadn't entirely healed, leaving a nasty pattern of burn scars winding from her stomach to her throat, and entirely down the one arm that had held the Bloody Lord in place. "Ah, these are going to take weeks to heal properly… well, it was fun all the same~"

At least her alarming cheer bounced back quickly. "Did you have fun?"

@The Otter

---

The cheer was less alarming than hearing the bloodied vampire start talking to herself in the middle of the ring of fire. He hadn't even been particularly worried that she would break his arm—he'd been ready to lift her off her feet and shake her around if she pulled too hard, that probably would have been surprise enough to snap her out of it, and if not, they always had good healers around. Luckily, she snapped out of both quickly enough, turning back to him with another wide smile.

"Eh. Frustrated, more like. Never quite seem to get what I'm hoping for." He shrugged, before pulling off his cloak and wrapping it around her, in case the scraps of clothes she had left managed to tear themselves apart before they could get back somewhere she could get properly dressed. "You, meanwhile, are grounded once we get back to the city. You can have fun with things without getting reckless, can't you?"

He simply refused to believe that a centuries-old vampire with monster slaying experience couldn't have figured out some way to achieve the same end result without having to light herself on fire in the process. Sure, Reon may have liked her a lot more than most vampires, but adding on that risk of self-immolation atop the dismemberment and everything else was too much for him to allow. Once he was satisfied that Tyaethe was well and truly covered—and fully put out—he drew back, pulling off one gauntlet and wiping at his cheek absent-mindedly.

"Oh, right." The cheek which was, by now, covered with a thin sheen of blood, nearly enough to start dripping off his chin. With a silly grin, he turned, the wound facing towards Tyaethe. "Taste any different, after what Fiadh's done?"

“I am two hundred years older than you,” Tyaethe said slowly, even swapping back to Veltish as if that might help with comprehension. Grounding her? How did Fionn really hope to do that? Grounding required some notion of… well, going out. Doing things. Neither of which, as a rule, the vampire tended to do all that much.

… also he couldn't actually enforce anything and the only way she wasn't his senior was the physical.

Her reaction to the blood being thrust in her face was considerably… hungrier than normal, locking onto it with a frighteningly intense expression until she turned away, focusing instead on watching what the Nithyr were up to. “Maybe ask me… later. When there aren't enemies.”

Even if the number that posed a threat had dwindled to one or two. And she had faith in the knights. Still, waiting until things were calmer couldn't hurt.

@The Otter

For a moment, he'd thought that had been it. Surely, whatever was behind the armor had to be vulnerable. And then Renar was quickly proven wrong as he narrowly evaded the retaliatory strike of flame with a tilt of his head.

And then he returned to a desperate defensive, frantically parrying and evading the barbs sent after him. This was getting ridiculous. He couldn't read an enemy that didn't have tells! His teeth grit. This was just random. No thought, strategy, or practice behind the lashing barbs. To lose to such a cheap wretch with no appreciable skill would just be insulting.

What to do, then? Precision had already failed. He still had no few tricks left, but half of them were discarded in his mind: they'd be of no use against a foe like this. Gerard or Fionn would likely have powered through by now, but Renar was more of a cerebral fighter than an instinctual one. He'd need a complete shift in mentality to change his approach in the middle of a battle. Better to weigh his other options first.

Not simply charging in didn't mean he couldn't rely on main force. He'd just need a more suitable weapon first. As Renar dove to the side to evade a barb, coming up in a roll, he finally spied it: his poleaxe, lying discarded but meters away. The moment he confirmed where it was, an idea formed in his head. Another flash bomb was hurled at the trapper's feet, the small explosion hopefully blinding it while dissipating some of the smoke around its form. When its vision cleared, it would see Renar's sword hurled straight at its head, with its wielder in question following up almost immediately after, the hammer head of his poleaxe coming down to crash into the trapper's helm while it was distracted with the blade.

A smug, self-satisfied grin crept up on Gertrude's lips.

"Well, if you're offering it, then I'll take the extended praise later," Gertrude answered Rolan in a tone that sounded as if she thought she'd won something, "anyways, no telling what the poison did or didn't do, but it was an impressively won fight that made use of our efforts. I'll gladly add Rozenalt's slaying to my list of accomplishments."

Even though Gertrude didn't really do anything directly, her smug expression indicated that she was comfortable putting her name on this one. That expression faded, however, when the Houndmaster began regenerating and transforming regardless of her intercession. That cheeky bugger.

"Oh, sod off," Gertrude grumbled as the abomination howled, taking its hideous, disturbing new form. She didn't know if she'd ever seen anything quite so abhorrent. It was like looking down at a particularly large, grotesque, rampaging insect. Well, there was only one thing to do with insects that earned her ire.

"That's what I get for trying to be clever. Aye, mistress, I'll get back to my specialty!"

Gertrude gripped her broom tight, and raised her hand.

In an instant, a bombardment of forceful, pinprick fireballs rained down on the fell beast, just small and precise enough to not catch her teammates. If Rolan gummed up its joints, then Gertrude made wider movements all but impossible for the creature while providing damaging, explosive judgement.

Fleuri Jodeau

If there was a point where it was evident that their foe had truly stopped holding back, this would be it. The houndmaster had consumed another one of its hounds to empower itself again. Any remaining façade of a human form was discarded fully as it warped and twisted into a towering beast. Fortunately, Fleuri and Fanilly would not be battling it alone- the witch and her ride-along appeared from above and began raining attacks down upon it.

Your pack dwindles, while mine grows. Now you are the prey being hounded.

With their airborne allies attacking the limbs, and Fanilly attacking its flank, now would be the time to strike while the beast was distracted and hindered. Fleuri readied his greatsword, and uttered a silent prayer to Reon.

Reon, Goddess of the Sun, guide my blade, help me to strike true...

With that, Fleuri charged forward, swinging his blade horizontally at the beast's midsection between its hips and ribcage.

The blades struck. The fireballs struck. The bolts struck.

The Houndmaster's limbs were shredded, his body carved open. With no more hounds to sustain the transformed monstrosity, he could no longer mend his form. Inside there was nothing but muscular tissue and blood, no organs appeared to be visible within his distorted form as crimson poured onto the earth beneath him.

Fanilly lowered her blade.

It was finished. No only the houndmaster, but across the entire clearing---

The hunt had ended. Its leader destroyed, the knights and the nithyr had eliminated or driven away the remaining hunters. With the end of the hunt, the knights and other creatures whose existence only appeared in its duration could no longer manifest.

The enemy force utterly collapsed with the death of its leader.

They'd done it.

They'd defeated the Midnight Hunt.

A strange feeling filled Fanilly's chest. A lightness to her heart. Was it some sort of euphoria? She'd lead her knights to victory against something that appeared utterly unstoppable. Even those who survived the Midnight Hunt had never managed to defeat it utterly.

Did the end of this battle actually make her feel some sort of glee?

Was that appropriate? Was she supposed to feel this way?

Fanilly shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. She needed to announce victory, thrust her blade skywards, and---

A grim, guttral laughter interrupted her thoughts.

The Houndmaster's limp corpse rose, head lolling to the side, jaws hanging open. The laughter was coming from its gaping maw, even though its eyes were glassy and dead.

Its hands rose, destroyed limbs coming together.

It was laughing.

It was clapping.

Was this... did it approve?

...

The corpse fell limply. Its flesh began to run, turning red, breaking down and oozing onto the grass.

Its flesh was melting into nothing but blood, leaving behind a distorted skeleton coated in nothing but gore.

"..."

It was ended.

Fanilly felt the tenseness dissipate once again.

She thrust her blade skywards.

"The Midnight Hunt has been ended! Victory! We have victory!"

@Crimson Paladin@Octo@Eisenhorn

---

The trapper crumpled as it was struck, the armour offering only minimal resistance before the entire fae creature simply… collapsed into a heap of abandoned armour and cloak, flames licking away at the broken joints. Just an empty shell, without any real body—

And then the flickering embers surged out, gathering into a single form that spiralled up, forming into some shape half torn between a pillar of flame and a vaguely humanoid torso, long, gangly arms stretching out into three-clawed hands. Wherever the light from its ruddy flames touched grew cold and dark as it stood, patterns amidst the flame regarding Renar with some alien emotion.

Then it was gone, the flames scattering as streams in all directions, leaving no trace of whatever that had been, and just the empty shell of the Trapper behind.

@Psyker Landshark

---

"..."

Behind the veil, the waifish girl's eyes could just barely be seen, widening.

She hadn't expected the blow to never come.

Despite this, she'd still administered her final attack as a test.

Did she make peace with the idea of death, or was it something else?

Regardless, with a strange, grinding noise, her blades disappeared into her hands, leaving no trace of their emergence in the first place.

Her slender, dainty hands raised to her veil, taking the thin white fabric gently and lifting it from her face.

Beneath, her features were slight and gentle, her eyes a gleaming solid blue blue, an extremely faint pinkness in her lips and cheeks marking here as what a human would consider alive rather then some form of shade or walking corpse.

She tilted her head towards her opponent, and offered nothing more than a silent, gentle smile.

And then she was gone.

@HereComesTheSnow

---

"What, no eleventh hour desperate gambits? I expected another one at the current rate of things." Rolan had a neutral tone, quietly grateful that the Houndmaster had elected to finally run out of hounds to consume and collapse from the sheer focus of violent attention it was getting. Still, the hedge knight reloaded and kept a steady hand and eye on the battlefield, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was it paranoid to expect something more to come barreling out of the woods, what with Rozenalt dead and the various champions bested or dead? Certainly, but paranoia wasn't exactly unhealthy when dealing with unnatural forces in the world, so while he didn't show any overt shock as the carcass of the Houndmaster began laughing, he did snap his crossbow to take aim in case it did anything more. He wasn't going to even try and guess as to its laughter, applauding, and eventual collapse. One of the more socially gifted could puzzle that one out, and another sweep showed any remaining members of the Hunt that were not already dead surrendering and departing. Well, that was one for the legends, the Hunt bested by the Iron Roses, and he even got a front row seat and at least a little bit of involvement.

"Seems like even the best of regenerations couldn't stand up to a fraction of your efforts, Gertrude, well done." A token gesture, but Rolan had gathered the easiest way to keep goading her into being useful was to at least play along with the praise. A few kind words could be spared if it meant keeping her from being quite as much of an overt nuisance as she could be, at least while he was working with her. How the others chose to handle cooperation was strictly up to them, though he cast an eye not on the Captain and the other knights of her immediate retinue, but on the others who had accompanied them and aided in providing the numbers and flank coverage to allow each of them to act at what they did best. Though immediate names escaped him, he still had much of his more curative supplies intact and could get most of any injured back into a walking state to seek out healers proper, and not overtax their limited supply of the magically inclined, doubly so after sufficient strain of a combat encounter with such a dangerous foe.

"If you would, please drop me off with the knights over there, the largest number who held the flanks. I'm not much of one for celebrating necessary victories and need to see to the injured, get them walking again at least." That would also leave discussion with the helping Nithyr to one of the others, which suited him even more, he supported the discussions and negotiations when able, but was far from a diplomatic soul, and saw it better to leave that to those more experienced with Fae dealings. Or partners with one, in a particular case, but he didn't judge when it came to who one chose to spend their time with. Once back on the ground, Rolan would begin looking for those he could aid the most, putting the more natural and curative nature of his alchemical skillset to use. Staunching bleeding, treating wounds, getting any injured into a walking state, now that the fight was done, without further orders Rolan focused on keeping himself busy in a way he knew how, that would at least be helpful.

Gertrude couldn't help but feel satisfied after she'd turned the Houndmaster into a sack of quivering innards. The rotter really was a nuisance, and it felt good to explode something that could feel it and be praised for her violence. She supposed all could be forgiven against a force of irredeemable monsters whose occupation was the unilateral massacre of anyone they came across.

Maybe that was knighthood.

A shiver ran up her back when the creature unexpectedly took its final bow, and she readied to explode it even more before it fell as quickly as it rose. Gertrude grit her teeth.

"Sodding creep," she muttered, ceremonially thrusting her arm up into the air as Fanilly declared victory. She wanted to stay and receive even more praise, but had a feeling she'd be chided if she failed to see Rolan to the wounded before their condition turned. Not that she cared for the small fry any.

"Even I'm a bit impressed with myself," she replied to Rolan smugly as she took off, "did you see that bleedin' worm? Of course you did, you shot at it. Bugger practically blotted out the sky. What would everyone have done without me? Might've even taken Rozenalt if we didn't give that one to Tyaethe."

Gertrude's grin widened as they touched down near the injured vanguard forces.

"Ah... that's what this is. The miniature mosquito can't well give you a tongue-lashing if you're tending the wounded. She's probably ready to go off... if she even remembers your interference. Maybe she went so mad that all she saw was blood."

And good goddesses-damned riddance to that waste of armor. Renar watched with no small amount of vindictive satisfaction as the trapper burned away, leaving behind the vestments it bore. And his eyes glinted with mercenary avarice.

"So as you've cost me, so shall I take what's due from you in turn." Renar exhaled, kneeling down as he started to rifle through the trapper's armor. The cloak was immediately taken and clasped onto his armor, of course. He needed one. If Renar couldn't keep the symbol of his first great victory, he'd replace it with this one. It had been a momentous duel, of course. Defeating a lieutenant of the Wild Hunt in single combat? Ignoring all of the ignoble tactics both fighters used, it would be a tale to tell should he have someone willing to back up every word he said.

He proceeded on with inspecting the armor. Best to bring it back to Candaeln for their resident smith to inspect and refit. At the very least, he'd like to take the helmet simply for the imposing visage it gave. Now, how to carry all this...ah. Of course.

"Gerard! Fionn!" Renar called out to his two closest friends. "Help me bring this armor back, would you? I want to see if it's still fit to wear."

@HereComesTheSnow @The Otter

Gerard Segremors

For a moment, the veil of moonlight about her was lifted, and her eyes in turn seemed to pierce the shadows that veiled his, despite his visor still being very much closed. one last scraping of bone sounded, between the silence, her weapons stowed— a gesture he had after a moment returned, sliding steel back into leather, and stepping away, affording his erstwhile foe a chance to breathe.

Come to think of it... despite being doubtlessly spun thin and delicate, she wasn't quite so small as it had felt, during the exchange of blows. Not quite the waif he had been threatening to shred.

She nodded, barely enough to see, and graced him with a small smile before disappearing on the nighttime wind. Silent as ever, he couldn't claim to be sure of the emotion behind it, only that it felt like some rare privilege.

...

How strange that had been. Still, one thing was undeniable— it could have easily gone a whole hell of a lot worse. He'd take his victory. Who knew? Given someone like Fionn was around, Gerard felt himself entertaining the notion that either his mercy, or his skill in battle had just earned him some strange form of friend.

But, as ever with a victory they all shared, the silence such idle thoughts could fill was quickly cut through, by a friend that was certain.

He jogged over in short order. "New cloak," a wry edge crept in as he noted the taller man's trophy, eyebrow raised beneath the helmet. He began to gather the pieces together, only giving a cursory once-over to each— more for curiosity's sake than anything else. There was perhaps some idea that a once-routine scavenger of battles won could lend some preliminary insights as to everything's condition, but here he didn't see anything leaping right off the steel. Whatever details there were to find, they'd likely need Ardor's expert eye and no less. "Felt like time to upgrade?"

@Psyker Landshark@The Otter

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If Tyaethe actually thought that being two hundred years older would make much of a difference, she was bound to be disappointed. Especially when Fionn was, at least in weight if not height, thrice her size. "Suit yourself," he replied with a shrug, moments before Fanilly actually announced their victory. "I'm still not going to let you get into any more trouble for now, at least."

Whether she would ponder just what he meant by that or choose to try and argue didn't matter, as, with her well-wrapped in his cloak, he quickly snatched her up and onto his shoulder like a sack of grain.

Vampiric super-strength couldn't do too much if she didn't have the ground to rely on, especially knowing she wouldn't really want to hurt him.

He scooped up her greatsword with the other hand, his borrowed blade from the Moonlit Queen's servant hanging loosely in the suspension for the dagger strapped to his belt. Not something to go running with, but fine enough for a walk. That did, however, fail to leave him with any hands free when he heard Renar calling out at him. Diminutive vampire in tow, he walked over to look at the Trapper's deserted armour, frowning.

"You have a sack, lad? Maybe tie that cloak into one, hook it onto my elbow with some of the larger bits inside. Shouldn't be too hard."

Fleuri Jodeau

They finally did it. They actually defeated a Midnight Hunt, Fleuri thought. This wasn't just a victory, this was a monumental feat comparable to the deeds of the original Iron Roses.

The knight briefly glanced over himself to check for any wounds that might have gone unnoticed. Seeing none on himself nor on the captain, he moved to fetch the houndmaster's greataxe- it might not be his preferred type of weapn, but it'd make for a fine trophy. He wasn't the only one collecting trophies- Renar had acquired a new cloak, and it looked like he wasn't finished gathering trophies.

It seemed only fair that with the grossly uneven wager that they had been pressured into by the Moonlit Queen, that the Roses get something tangible out of this.

Speaking of the Moonlit Queen, Fleuri hadn't forgotten what her terms were- that the fallen knights become hers. He couldn't remember exactly if it still applied if the Roses defeated the Midnight Hunt, but it stood to reason that any deal with the fae would probably end up being interpreted in whatever manner was most advantageous to them.

Fanilly, Rolan, and Gertrude seemed none the worse for wear. Renar was calling for Gerard and Fionn, all of whom seemed unscathed. Tyaethe was currently being carried around by Fionn, quite the undignified continuation to what should be a triumphant victory on her part. Fleuri, after recovering the axe, moved to check up on Arken, Yael, and Caulder.

She could have avoided being picked up; there was nothing impairing her reaction times. She could even have broken free after that, even without causing (real) damage. Watching Fionn try to keep his grip on a suddenly armoured figure even larger than he was would be an interesting one.

But all of that would have been more exertion than she thought was a good idea, so the vampire just pounded her (less) burned fist on his back. "This is no way to carry a lady!"

Still, there was enough slack for her to wriggle around to a seated position with the air of someone who's done this too many times before, even with her somewhat limited range of motion right now.

The vampire gave a slow blink at Renar's announced desire to take armour. "Do none of you have any sense of self-preservation? Those idiots nearly drew Rozenalt's entire attention, and now you're taking magic fae armour?"

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"Fae magic stuff works out pretty well in my experience," Fionn replied with an entirely straight face. "Besides, Renar would get it checked out to make sure it's safe before actually trying to use it at all. He's careful like that."