I found myself beginning to weigh my options; ice and gusts of snow swirled around me in a constant buffeting – to struggle at once to maintain the storm's ferocity, all whilst tempering the fury just enough to keep from doing more harm than good was beginning to wear on me. I had bought the castle's defenders maybe a little more time to gain their footing – and, indeed, the havoc wrought by a squad of minigun toting Drakes made my hail of ice pale a little in comparison to the storm of silver bullets.

I lowered my arms and began a few breathing exercises, eyes remaining closed as I grappled to control the weight that had pressed itself in from around me... it was enough. Victory in battle did not always win the war. I supposed I'd experienced enough of history to verify that. Not to mention the mindless assault of the castle gates was causing me to wonder whether I'd been nothing more than a pawn in a mere game of distraction.

I finally let go, turned and let the storm run out its course – it would rage on for a little while longer, but seemed unlikely to spiral out of control if left untended. My senses began to return... cold... as if I had been dropped into a bath all of ice without warning, and the sudden shock snaps me back to the present just as surely as it sucks the wind from my lungs. 

Nestor turns abruptly. He was only vaguely aware of having climbed so far, and it took several moments for the scattered pieces of what had just happened to assemble themselves. He shook his head. Frowned. Gazed down at the fresh layer of snow that had rendered the courtyard below a bizarre pile of misshapen lumps and hummocks leading all the way to the embattled gates and beyond. The frown deepened upon encountering the red... red... blood on the snow! With a silent cry the decision is made; one hand resting for an instant upon the icy parapet, the Demonspawn vaults the stonework and plummets to the balcony beneath.

A jarring impact follows, ice and stone groaning and shattering as Nestor lands directly in the centre of the snowy stonework; something in my mind twitches – thoughts run to one place, the raw reflexes of my own body directed in another. I float above the ground, only half-aware of my own actions. Interesting, I had apparently drawn my sword upon landing (Cliched but useful in a pinch; and besides – what was the purpose of a cane if there wasn't a sword in it?) – and while my mind was still struggling to piece out the puzzle of pawprints... very large pawprints... pattering about in the snow, then bounding – leaping toward me!-- my body sprang into motion. The laquered wood of the hollow cane clacked so hard I almost imagined it might have broken; then my blade leapt forth, the tip plunging into the opening that instinct only told me was there. I hit empty air. Hear the rush of wind as the creature leaps past, metal snicking against metal as I displace my invisible opponent's offhand blow to my backside, whirl about and bring the edge slicing low even as the cane knocks aside another strike roaring in from the right. I graze something. A low growl follows, and a modest welling of red begins to seep through invisible fur, blood dripping – as it were – from mid-air. 

But not enough. I have no time for this! Apparently neither does my invisible enemy; the footsteps retrace backward – toward the edge of the balcony – before vanishing over the rim. I wonder to myself how much time I will have, before the creature's next ambush – watch as I dart through the doorway and into the great hall beyond.

A scene of chaos greets Nestor the moment he steps in from the balcony; shouts, cries – a hail of rain inside the very hall... rain that begins to freeze, mingling now with snow in a slushy downpour that soon leaves the fine tiles carpeted in a puddling mess: blood mingles, here and there, and I have no time to discern from whom or where – only to dash across the slick floor, half-expecting at any moment to feel the stinging bite of a blade at my back. I note Siya, holding an unseen victim against the wall – one accounted for, at least, not that I have a clue as to how many there might actually be. 

“Mind your back, Semyon!” Nestor calls out as he approaches, falling into position to cover the assisting Wight and wounded Werewolf; “I lost one outside... only pricked him well enough to see he was probably alive... wouldn't shock me in the least if he came back...” The sword is by now wreathed in a writhing, blue light – tendrils of crystalline veins stand out in the Demonspawn's exposed arms, his eyes nothing more than blazing pools of vivid blue – he glares toward the faltering shadows, blade shifting restlessly about in his hand, as though prepared for an unseen blow that might land at any moment.

And meanwhile, the storm I had left outside raged on – abated now, to a degree, but perhaps it was the constant -thud- of exploding souls that kept the weather from calming entirely. The cold lingered.