[color=gray][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/AS2MEph.png[/img]

[color=gold]Time:[/color] Evening, Ignis 2
[color=gold]Location:[/color] Tough Tavern
[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kw1-B9FGYTA&list=RDHTgP5NOfPmM&index=2[/youtube][/center]
[sub][@Tae][@CitrusArms][@Potter][@Lava Alckon][@Samreaper][@Tpartywithzombi][@ReusableSword][@Apex Sunburn][/sub]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/PsKHmMI.png[/img]
[color=#997657][h1]₱₳Ɽ₮ 6[/h1][/color]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/4YhzjaR.png[/img]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/PsKHmMI.png[/img]
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The doors slammed open and the tavern’s noise ceased—every head snapping that way, even Garran’s, his pistol still planted on Ariella but his focus shifting. The man with the heavy accent had distracted everyone for a few seconds—

 [i]—and then Stratya had moved.[/i]

[hr]


Ox had simply stepped out of the way of his comrade in peril. These were criminals, sure, but to have so little care for his comrade told Stratya all she needed to know. Despite being the capital, despite having infrastructure and authorities around, the city had somehow fostered actual, full-blown bandits within its borders. The kind that considered a loss from the team as one less mouth to pay and feed. Hired and promptly terminated in the space of a breath. Unfortunate. His strength would have been useful for construction.

The head that came sailing over from behind the bar informed her that the witch had already been dealt with. Not quite how she wanted her death to go, but Stratya couldn’t really complain. At least the threat was gone. Roman rushed past her to Drake’s side, and the knight took up a position to cover him while she assessed the situation. The nobles in her care had scattered around the room, which would make it difficult to protect them.

Garran shifted his weight, drawing the knight’s attention. She hopped aside reflexively, leaving her open for another threat to close in on her with deathly swiftness. She misread Marius’ intent and braced for her arm to be grabbed, the realization that he meant for her [i]hair[/i] coming too late.

The man’s chain brought her arms into her body, her right hand high and her left low, before he gave a mighty heave to try and bring her to the ground. Her feet planted wide to keep herself upright and her arms, instead of struggling against her restraints, grabbed on to Marius. Her left held him close while her right hand gripped onto his head wherever it could. The intense golden light in her eyes stared into his,[color=peru] “[i]you[/i] came to [i]me[/i].”[/color]

She wrenched the both of them around so she could see Garran and point her right palm at him while she held Marius. A quick scan found the knife he mentioned, at Charlotte’s throat. He’d had the good grace to point it out to the room, even, and then.. the barmaid. What was happening? Had the witch done something in her last moments? Garran had not seemed very concerned about losing his witch. Ox had Drake by the neck, another hostage. The squad of men entering the room was going to drag this out, as well. All of these things were concerning, but there was something she had to do first.

Once more, softly as the first,[color=peru] “Objicerre invocarre.”[/color] Her eyes were trained on the gun in Garran’s hand. She wanted his bullet. For her, the idea of one hand being dominant over the other was foreign. She understood that was how it was for many people, but for her, they were interchangeable. Her right hand, this time.

The bullet would be pulled to her right hand and pushed into Marius’ head, and though shallow, it resulted in an immediate seizure. And then the fire went out.

Both her hands ached [i]deeply[/i] now, but it wasn’t the ache that concerned her. No, The Fury had abated.. no, been dissipated, leaving her to feel the pain in her hands. It was not gone - she could feel it rebuilding. The Knight took a moment as she unraveled herself and pushed Marius off of her, retaining the chain in her right hand. Her eyes came to the hostage situation on the stairs. Lady Charlotte was still in peril. With any luck, her hands could withstand another casting. With her left hand again,[color=peru] “objicerre invocarre.”[/color]

Her left hand would need rest, she could feel it. As well, the darkness of the room must have inhibited her ability to perform the spell accurately. Not only did her left hand now feel like it was burning, but the dagger that appeared in her left hand appeared [i]in[/i] her left hand, the blade luckily slipped between her bones and tendons. Stratya Durmand let out a strangled cry of pain and the golden glow of her spell casting returned to the raging torrential shine of her Fury. The chain came for the boulder of a man, for his head, and the captain watched as the end wrapped around and she pulled hard, her leg out to trip him. She abandoned the chain for the dagger from her left hand, pulling it out swiftly to plunge it down into Ox’s jugular as he fell.

Her golden gaze turned to Garran, the next closest.

[center][Img]https://i.imgur.com/yk7f1yd.jpg[/img][/center]

She gave Ox’s head an irritated kick as she stepped across him, her right hand now drawing her dirk. Once past the tripping hazard, she’d charge the ring leader, her left hand moving to block his gun out of habit while her right sought to plunge another blade into another neck and shoulder.

Garran was too quick, and still fresh, he’d hardly done more than pull himself to his feet. Even with the Fury, Stratya felt the weight of combat and casting. The ringleader moved back, dragging Ariella with him as he flicked chairs in Stratya’s path. When she stopped to kick at the chain she’d accidentally left to grapple with her feet, he saw the chance to reload. Done with a practiced precision, Garran then retrained his weapon on Ariella and readied himself to put the trigger with a wicked grin.

[color=#997657]“Kill them all!” [/color]He suddenly roared. 

[hr]

It wasn’t enough that the illusions didn’t have the desired effect on Marius. The mage was dealt with, but Roman's plan to free Drake had only got him thrown across the room. The shadows felt like barbs and hooks—wrapping, restricting, and pulling him off his feet and against the far wall. The shadows were back up, or possibly never left. Possession, maybe? Or just good acting.

Taking stock of his injuries, he knew he was concussed. Three cracked ribs, two out of place, internal bleeding, a gash along his left forearm. He was deaf in his right ear and couldn’t see color out of his left eye. He felt feverish, though not bad, but his left eye was dripping blood, and he could taste iron. Not a good position to be in.

He could destroy this place; he still had plenty of might left in the tank. But could he risk it? Would he risk the Red Wake here? No. He knew far too well that it did not discriminate between friend or foe. He could stay here, slouched in a heap, feigning unconsciousness. He would be well within his rights to do so. But no—he would protect his friends.

Forcing his eyes open, he found his vision blurry, making it hard to concentrate on any moving person. Slowly, he made out Stratya’s movements. She was still fighting, still trying. Then, in a moment, he felt it: the sudden disappearance of the fire, the overwhelming weight of magic in the confined space simply vanishing.

The door opened and he recognized one of the men entering, standing tall against the bandits. A foreign savior in more than one way, he supposed. Still, there were others who needed help before these new arrivals could get to them.

Ariella was still being held at gunpoint, and Charlotte still had a knife to her throat. If he didn’t want to raise the Red Wake, he only had enough energy left for one or two simple spells. Nothing extravagant—just small and planned.

He focused on the gun first; it was a model he recognized. He knew how the firing mechanism worked. There was a mainspring in a small, hollowed part of the grip. That spring was under tension now, the hammer cocked back, waiting for the trigger to release the force and ignite the blasting cap. Roman reached his left hand out towards it, envisioned it, saw what he wanted it to do. It didn’t need much—just a flash, a spark of heat to weaken the spring and render it useless. He couldn’t see if it actually worked, but the charred burning flesh that spiraled from his middle fingertip told him something happened.

The only other thing he could try was to help Charlotte. Slowly, he turned his head but otherwise didn’t move. All he could see were glimpses and reflections off other items. Then, the glint of a blade at her neck.

This time, it had to be specific. It was already a bad angle; a wordless spell was out of the question. There was too much collateral in the way. She might still get hit, but he had to do something.

[color=f26522][i]“Elding í hjarta,”[/i][/color] he whispered, raising his left arm. The hair on his arm stood straight up and the smell of ozone wafted from him. His arm burned and went limp as a small blue bead scurried off his hand. It traveled up the wall and sprung towards the weapon, latching on and electrifying the knife and its wielder.

He was spent. All he could do now was hope the others could hold their own. His focus had to be on getting himself centered, ensuring he didn't let out the monster that raged inside, begging to be let loose.

[hr]

During this moment, Winston hauled himself over the bar like a man climbing out of a grave, elbows shaking, breath caught. One hand smeared along the counter for balance, leaving a drag of blood across, and his boots skidded as he dropped behind it. The other hand was over the stab wound in his side, painting his skin red as it spilled between his fingers. He glanced back only once with his eyes wild, jaw clenched, and then he staggered through the kitchen door, shouldering it open with the last of his strength before it swung inward behind him, swallowing him.

Marius had tried to follow, but his body still wasn’t fully his. The seizure had wrung him out and left him twitching, fingers spasming as he pushed himself upright in uneven increments. He got one knee under him, then another, swallowing hard against the sour taste in his mouth, forcing his eyes to focus through the afterimage of pain. He made it three steps before his legs threatened to fold again, a tremor crawling up his spine; still, he lurched forward anyway, stubborn as a dog that refused to stay down. He staggered after the kitchen door, determined to get out even if he had to crawl. Luckily, he was hidden mostly behind the bar from the view of those on the first floor now.

[hr]

Kazumin’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking... and then the tavern doors shrieked on their hinges. Four silhouettes filled the doorway like a shadow spilling in. Kazumin’s focus snapped toward them on instinct, and the sudden shift threw him off: his boot slid on something slick, his shoulder catching the rail as he stumbled back.

For a second, the crossbow dipped, his grip faltering as his stomach lurched. He recognized one of them from the banquet: the man who had been speaking with Charlotte and kept looking at Kalliope. If they had gotten inside, that meant backup could come in. This was their chance! He dragged in a sharp breath and forced his wrists to obey. 

The bow-gun felt wrong in his grip, and the barmaid’s levitating silhouette made his stomach twist in a knot. 
Below him, voices crashed together, and he couldn’t pick them apart anymore. The sight of Lottie and Ariella with weapons close to their bodies had made his blood run cold.  He lifted the bow-gun anyway, fighting the tremor in his wrists. He gulped as the sight wobbled and he fumbled it once, corrected, then swallowed hard.

And then Percy’s face flashed in his mind—how steady she’d been when she showed him, how simple she’d made it look. He pictured her hand over his, guiding his finger. Kazu then aimed for the floating witch, silently praying, and then exhaled, squeezing the trigger, and the crossbow snapped. 
The bolt bit into the barmaid’s shoulder with a sharp jolt that twisted her midair as she yowled in pain. Kazumin didn’t lower the weapon afterward, even when her gaze of darkness met his with terrifying fury. His eyes were burning, he was still terrified… but upright, refusing to be useless while the room was still bleeding.


[hr]

The bolt in the barmaid’s shoulder didn’t drop her—if anything, it made her uglier. She twisted in midair with a hiss that sounded like laughter strangled into pain, one hand clamping over the wound as black seeped between her fingers like ink pushed through cloth. Her eyes snapped up to the balcony, fixing on the archers, and the shadows in the rafters answered her like hounds. They peeled off the beams in long strips, not smoke but something heavier, barbed at the edges, whipping upward in a violent arc.

The first lash snapped across the balcony rail and burst into splinters, forcing anyone aiming to recoil or lose their footing. Another ribbon of darkness hooked toward Kazumin’s position, clawing at his wrists and the crossbow like it wanted to wrench both from him. 

Then she pivoted, fast, toward the doorway, toward the silhouettes that had just arrived. Her free hand rose, palm open, and the darkness gathered at it in a dense knot. She flung it outward, and it exploded into a fan of needle-thin shadow-spikes that screamed across the tavern in a straight, punishing line, aimed to split the entryway and drive the newcomers back. She only cared about stopping help from becoming a problem, turning the threshold into a killing zone, and daring Sjan-dehk and the others to advance through it.

[hr]

With the chaos that ensued and rapid spell casts that threatened to turn the tide at any moment, Drake’s focus was on his sister. It was as if time slowed, and everything seemed to pass in slow motion. His strength returned, now that he was no longer being choked by that mountain of a man. But the damn restraints still kept him from moving. There was little time to bicker or argue. He knew he had to act soon or he’d lose his sister.

While the others had their magic tricks, leaving them spent and unable to move. Drake had the benefit of being a regular man amidst all this. The man rolled his wrists against the restraints, twisting himself in a subtle yet smooth motion. Garran had barely any time to witness the movement before Drake’s hand found the cold steel of his six-shooter. He unholstered it with a quick drop of his hip, his hand steadying the gun.

Then, once again, time slowed down. Drake’s eyes locked with Garran’s. A look of fury and malcontent was all that greeted him. Until it became one of triumph and smugness. The bandit flashed his eyes downward just in time to catch the spark of gunpowder as the hammer fell, and the gunshot rang throughout the tavern. From the barrel of his gun, through his jacket, just beside Ariella’s head, and finally into Garran’s skull, the bullet pierced the air and found its target.

The body that crumpled to the ground was no longer the ringleader; it was merely a corpse. In the silence that followed, Drake pushed his adrenaline-fueled body to its limit and ripped the ropes enough to finally wrench himself free from the post. He paced towards the ringleader, his thumb casually pulling the hammer back as he spoke.

[color=greenyellow]”I gave you all a chance. Too many chances. And now he knows what comes when you cross the Edwards.”[/color] Drake softly kicked the gun away from Garran, and spun around. [color=greenyellow]”I can hit a moving target at 40 yards from the hip, 60 on a good day. I just put a hole in your leader's head, you’re all surrounded by several minutemen and mercenaries, several ferocious nobles worth more than their salt in a fight and one [b]extremely[/b] angry older brother.”[/color]

The man’s barrel moved until it was trained on the man standing over Charlotte, but his eyes kept darting to the scant few who remained after the brawl. [color=greenyellow]”So let’s play my own little game. If any of you who tried to take us hostage move, I shoot. You cast a spell, I shoot. You say anything I don’t like, I shoot. I count 5 shots left, and 4 bodies yet to become corpses. So if you’re feeling braver than a man with everything to lose…Then TRY ME! MAKE MY NIGHT! I’ll happily let you meet your makers.”[/color] Drake shouted to the tavern, readying himself for whatever defiant stroke might come his way next. The bloodlusted battle cry was unbecoming of him – but he had to do his best and end this traumatic night alongside all the others giving their all to keep each other safe.

[hr]

Meanwhile, Paul didn’t understand what the nobleman had done until the knife turned vicious in his hand. A sharp, biting snap ran up the steel and straight into his wrist, like lightning shoved under his skin. His fingers clenched against his will, forearm locking, teeth rattling as his grip spasmed and his shoulder jerked hard enough to wrench Charlotte’s throat against the edge. He felt the blade skate on her neck and felt the warm proof of it, and her breath hitched right under his ear, terrified.

He had time only to watch her fumble at her skirt, hands shaking so badly he almost missed it, and then metal flashed from her pocket. He felt the little knife before he saw it as it drove into the inside of his forearm with a wet, shocking sting, right where the tendons screamed; his hand finally loosened. 

She twisted out from under him in a scramble, slipping down and away to crawl before he could re-grab her, leaving him swearing through the aftershock with his arm burning and his control blown to pieces. And after what Drake Edwards had said, Paul didn't want to risk budging from his spot—[i]so he let her go.[/i]

[hr]

The tavern was an eruption of chaos at this point: chairs shrieking against boards as patrons threw themselves down behind tables and benches. Someone near the hearth knocked a mug loose, and it shattered. A woman sobbed a prayer under her breath, and another man crawled on his elbows toward the back wall. Even the drunkest faces sobered; bodies pressed flat, hands over heads, eyes peeking through fingers at the kind of violence you only saw once before you learned to fear it for life.

What was left of Garran’s crew didn’t rush like bandits anymore—they [i]hesitated[/i] like men who’d just watched the ground fall out from under them, [i]especially[/i] after Lord Edwards' threat. One backed into the shadow of a support beam, jaw clenched. Another lifted his weapon halfway, thought better of it when Drake’s barrel tracked even the twitch, and froze with his breathing too loud. Their eyes kept darting at Stratya’s golden glare, at Roman’s hand, at the door’s silhouettes. They were measuring odds.

Then they noticed the barmaid’s darkness coming toward those at the door. Instinct snapped through the remaining bandits—fear, yes, but also [i]opportunity[/i]. If the witch was trying to [i]stop[/i] them, then those men weren’t reinforcements to bargain with. One of the thugs barked something panicked, and it spread like a spark.

They moved all at once, not bravely but with desperation. A pair surged toward the entryway to meet the newcomers in the confusion. One flung a chair into the path of the first man through, another lunged low with a short blade meant for knees and ankles, forcing the doorway crew to fight for every step forward. Somewhere behind them, a thug leveled a flintlock with shaking hands and fired toward the threshold. 

The tavern then became a mess of bodies and panic.

[/color]