Heading to Middenheim to seek refuge. Here is a highly detailed 'google map' style look at the Old World.
And a more traditional one!
GM
POOHEAD189 Warrior
Moderator
Seen
17 min ago
Heading to Middenheim to seek refuge. Here is a highly detailed 'google map' style look at the Old World.
And a more traditional one!
GM
POOHEAD189 Warrior
Moderator
Seen
17 min ago
GM
POOHEAD189 Warrior
Moderator
Seen
17 min ago
@PennyI'll be gone for two days, but when I get back I'll be writing a longer post :)
I'm out till tomorrow night will post then!
GM
POOHEAD189 Warrior
Moderator
Seen
17 min ago
@PennyAwesome! Glad to hear from ya. Didn't know if things were ok or not.
Mesmerize the weak willed, and if thrown on the ground, will turn into a Cobra that follows Emmaline's command
@POOHEAD189
Rumored to have once belonged to the legendary thief Nydeer Ali, this gold ring with simple grey stones appears fairly prosaic. However, it subtly bends the Wind of Shadows, causing spells targeted toward the ring to sputter and fail as though by mischance. It also grants the wearer increased stealth in low light or in shadows, making them much harder to see when they are sneaking, though not actually invisible.
1x Like
In the interest of me not mangling Emmaline's patrons name too many more times:
Asaph
Asaph
Hard Days and Cold Nights
The carriage creaked to a halt as the coachman hauled on the reigns. The four horses neighed and stamped their feet in frustration, iron horse shoes sparking on chips of flint in the road way. The big horse’s breath steamed in the cold winter air even though the lazily fall snowflakes had yet to coat the ground. The pine and oak of the Drakwal too had yet to take their coat of white, the anemic heat of the sun enough to ward off the flakes until the chill of night set in. That should be an hour or two yet, even in these northern latitudes. Even so they cast long shadows over the road, a remote section of switchback that climbed out of an isolated valley. The cause of the abrupt halt was immediately apparent. A moderate sized tree lay across the road, obstructing passage out of the valley. Judging by the green and healthy look of leaves and bark, it had obviously not been felled by the slow decay of old age or the vicissitudes of weather.
The coachmen let out a curse which morphed into a cry of alarm as a half dozen figures dressed in mismatched armor and threadbare cloaks emerged from the treeline hefting rust splotched weapons and an assortment of firearms that looked like they were as dangerous to the users as to their intended victims. All had looks of feral triumph on their unshaven faces. The leader, a muscular man with a dirty blond beard and a great sword slung over his back sauntered forward, a triumphant smirk on his face that showed off surprisingly good teeth given the scarred and battered shape he was in.
“Thought you could use the snow to escape did you Gräfin,” he mocked. A slim hand pulled back the curtain to reveal the woman inside. While she was unquestionably beautiful, graceful and poised, she most certainly wasn’t Gräfin Brunhilde Von Dounkebruk who possesed none of these qualities. She was dressed in imperial fashion, a corseted shirt of red and cream stripe, though she had forgone the traditional long skirt in favor of tight trousers of dark brown fabric and long boots like those favored by pistoliers. A rapier, of find quality but with its once fine hilt worn by long use was belted around her waist, along with a pair of long cavalry pistols. Another marked departure from the noble Lady of Donkebruke. There was a forgien caste to her, a slight angularity of features and a wavy quality to her dark hair that suggested she was likely from at least the Southern Marches, and likely from Tilea or Estalia.
“I’m not a Gräfin,” she confessed in accented but perfectly intelligible Riekspiel.
“I am a Baronetess of the Court of Middenheim, though honestly its an ugly word and it dosen’t come with any land or income,” she explained to the gruff bandit who had been shocked by this sudden departure from his plan.
“Where is the bitch who owns this carriage?” he demanded, confusion transmuting to anger. A frequent response in this bandits life it might be observed.
“Probably back in town sitting down to a Mondstille feast I expect,” the stranger, definitely a Tilean, replied, remarkably undisturbed by the bandits, many of whom were now openly leering.
“I don’t know what you are playing at bitch,” the leader snarled, “but I suppose we can find a use for a pretty noblewoman as easily as a fat one.” That raised a lewd chuckle from the gang.
“I am Camilla Dela Trantio,” the woman introduced herself, “and I’m afraid I have other plans.” They started at her with open incredulity.
“Listen bitch, I have six men here and a score back in camp and I…” The treat was interrupted by the distant boom of a firearm. It was a sharp precise sound, a dwarven made weapon if Camilla was any judge.
“Nineteen,” she corrected. Veins bulged in the leaders neck and he opened his mouth to snarl a threat. Another boom sounded from the direction he had indicated his camp was in with a hook of his thumb.
“Eighteen,” she said mildly. The bandits had had enough.
“Get her out of that fucking coach and…”
“Oh we can get out on our own,” Camilla interrupted with a smirk. The leader was fit to burst, and it seemed likely that appolplexy might carry him to Morrs garden on the spot.
“We? You got a mouse in your pocket or something?” he sneered.
“Not exactly,” she admitted, and then swung the door of the carriage outwards on its tallow greased hinges.
“I’m not a bloody mouse,” a gruff voice declared. The bandits had just enough time to register the squat form of a dwarf laying on the floor of the coach, a dark green ranger cape tossed over a shoulder and a wide mouthed blunderbuss clutched in his meaty fists. They did not, however, have time to move before the coachgun went off with a roar that would have outdone some small cannons. Three of the thugs staggered back, one of them spitting blood, another clutching at his shredded chest. The third took a piece or rusty langridge through the eye and collapsed to the ground without so much as a twitch. Camilla hauled the door shut and ducked behind the thick oak panneling as the survivors refleivly fired their own firearms. One of the pistols snapped impotently and a second hissed as the poorly maintained weapon squibbed. Both the leader’s gun and another thugs pistoles fired, gouging splinters from the side of the equipage. Camilla popped up and kicked the door open, with her boot, leaping gracefully to the ground with a pistol in each hand. Both weapons cracked one dropped a thug who was tearing at the priming pan of his pistol to the ground, clutching at a red wound in his gut. The other struck the leader in the chest plate, but ricocheted from the thick metal, with an audible clang that flung him to the ground. The dwarf rolled out of the carriage somewhat less gracefully, hitting the ground with a thump but rolling to his feet in an instant. He swung the smoking blunderbuss like a club, caving in the skull of a bandit holding a smoking pistol with a sound like a melon being dropped to the floor. As the leader staggered to his feet the surviving bandit lunged for Camilla, her rapier whipped free of its scabbard, flickign aside his short sword before thrusting expertly into the gap between breastplate and pauldron. Bright red arterial blood gouted from the bandits lips, staining his beard before he fell to the ground.
“I will make you die slow!” the bandit leader screamed, unlimbering his great sword and taking a swing at Camilla, she skipped back out of the arc and tried to thrust in while her opponent was of balance. Violent and stupid the man might be, but a poor swordsman he was not. He managed to get his blade up in a cross cutting parry that would have shattered the slender blade if Camilla had attempted to parry the stroke rather than dancing back once again.
“That little knitting needle isn’t going to stop me girl,” the bandit snarled.
“I’m going to..” whatever else he was going to do was lost in a scream of agony as the dwarf’s short handled axe hacked into the back of his knee in a spray of blood and popping tendon. The brute screamed like a cattle at slaughter and collapsed as his leg gave way. The dwarf stepped forward and, quite dispassionately split the bandits head from crown to nose with a second slash of his bloody axe.
“He dinnae know when to shut up,” the dwarf exclaimed in the sudden silence that followed. The only sound was the coachman who was by now retching in horror at the sudden and complete slaughter that had unfolded in the space of a few heart beats. Blood coated the road side and the bodies steamed in the chill winter air.
“My thanks Master Bjornson, might have been a real challenge with that great sword of his,” she admitted. Gunir Bjornson laughed derisively.
“Ye’da managed lass, ye always doo,” he said, wiping blood and brain matter from his axe blade onto the bandits cloak.
“Well I’m just as pleased I didn’t have to,” Camilla admitted. In the distance the sound of gunfire grew more intense, intermingled now with the clash of steel on steel. Camilla whipped her own blade clean with the tunic of a dead bandit.
“We had best get to it, sounds like Cydric might need our help despite his boasting,” she declared.
@POOHEAD189
The carriage creaked to a halt as the coachman hauled on the reigns. The four horses neighed and stamped their feet in frustration, iron horse shoes sparking on chips of flint in the road way. The big horse’s breath steamed in the cold winter air even though the lazily fall snowflakes had yet to coat the ground. The pine and oak of the Drakwal too had yet to take their coat of white, the anemic heat of the sun enough to ward off the flakes until the chill of night set in. That should be an hour or two yet, even in these northern latitudes. Even so they cast long shadows over the road, a remote section of switchback that climbed out of an isolated valley. The cause of the abrupt halt was immediately apparent. A moderate sized tree lay across the road, obstructing passage out of the valley. Judging by the green and healthy look of leaves and bark, it had obviously not been felled by the slow decay of old age or the vicissitudes of weather.
The coachmen let out a curse which morphed into a cry of alarm as a half dozen figures dressed in mismatched armor and threadbare cloaks emerged from the treeline hefting rust splotched weapons and an assortment of firearms that looked like they were as dangerous to the users as to their intended victims. All had looks of feral triumph on their unshaven faces. The leader, a muscular man with a dirty blond beard and a great sword slung over his back sauntered forward, a triumphant smirk on his face that showed off surprisingly good teeth given the scarred and battered shape he was in.
“Thought you could use the snow to escape did you Gräfin,” he mocked. A slim hand pulled back the curtain to reveal the woman inside. While she was unquestionably beautiful, graceful and poised, she most certainly wasn’t Gräfin Brunhilde Von Dounkebruk who possesed none of these qualities. She was dressed in imperial fashion, a corseted shirt of red and cream stripe, though she had forgone the traditional long skirt in favor of tight trousers of dark brown fabric and long boots like those favored by pistoliers. A rapier, of find quality but with its once fine hilt worn by long use was belted around her waist, along with a pair of long cavalry pistols. Another marked departure from the noble Lady of Donkebruke. There was a forgien caste to her, a slight angularity of features and a wavy quality to her dark hair that suggested she was likely from at least the Southern Marches, and likely from Tilea or Estalia.
“I’m not a Gräfin,” she confessed in accented but perfectly intelligible Riekspiel.
“I am a Baronetess of the Court of Middenheim, though honestly its an ugly word and it dosen’t come with any land or income,” she explained to the gruff bandit who had been shocked by this sudden departure from his plan.
“Where is the bitch who owns this carriage?” he demanded, confusion transmuting to anger. A frequent response in this bandits life it might be observed.
“Probably back in town sitting down to a Mondstille feast I expect,” the stranger, definitely a Tilean, replied, remarkably undisturbed by the bandits, many of whom were now openly leering.
“I don’t know what you are playing at bitch,” the leader snarled, “but I suppose we can find a use for a pretty noblewoman as easily as a fat one.” That raised a lewd chuckle from the gang.
“I am Camilla Dela Trantio,” the woman introduced herself, “and I’m afraid I have other plans.” They started at her with open incredulity.
“Listen bitch, I have six men here and a score back in camp and I…” The treat was interrupted by the distant boom of a firearm. It was a sharp precise sound, a dwarven made weapon if Camilla was any judge.
“Nineteen,” she corrected. Veins bulged in the leaders neck and he opened his mouth to snarl a threat. Another boom sounded from the direction he had indicated his camp was in with a hook of his thumb.
“Eighteen,” she said mildly. The bandits had had enough.
“Get her out of that fucking coach and…”
“Oh we can get out on our own,” Camilla interrupted with a smirk. The leader was fit to burst, and it seemed likely that appolplexy might carry him to Morrs garden on the spot.
“We? You got a mouse in your pocket or something?” he sneered.
“Not exactly,” she admitted, and then swung the door of the carriage outwards on its tallow greased hinges.
“I’m not a bloody mouse,” a gruff voice declared. The bandits had just enough time to register the squat form of a dwarf laying on the floor of the coach, a dark green ranger cape tossed over a shoulder and a wide mouthed blunderbuss clutched in his meaty fists. They did not, however, have time to move before the coachgun went off with a roar that would have outdone some small cannons. Three of the thugs staggered back, one of them spitting blood, another clutching at his shredded chest. The third took a piece or rusty langridge through the eye and collapsed to the ground without so much as a twitch. Camilla hauled the door shut and ducked behind the thick oak panneling as the survivors refleivly fired their own firearms. One of the pistols snapped impotently and a second hissed as the poorly maintained weapon squibbed. Both the leader’s gun and another thugs pistoles fired, gouging splinters from the side of the equipage. Camilla popped up and kicked the door open, with her boot, leaping gracefully to the ground with a pistol in each hand. Both weapons cracked one dropped a thug who was tearing at the priming pan of his pistol to the ground, clutching at a red wound in his gut. The other struck the leader in the chest plate, but ricocheted from the thick metal, with an audible clang that flung him to the ground. The dwarf rolled out of the carriage somewhat less gracefully, hitting the ground with a thump but rolling to his feet in an instant. He swung the smoking blunderbuss like a club, caving in the skull of a bandit holding a smoking pistol with a sound like a melon being dropped to the floor. As the leader staggered to his feet the surviving bandit lunged for Camilla, her rapier whipped free of its scabbard, flickign aside his short sword before thrusting expertly into the gap between breastplate and pauldron. Bright red arterial blood gouted from the bandits lips, staining his beard before he fell to the ground.
“I will make you die slow!” the bandit leader screamed, unlimbering his great sword and taking a swing at Camilla, she skipped back out of the arc and tried to thrust in while her opponent was of balance. Violent and stupid the man might be, but a poor swordsman he was not. He managed to get his blade up in a cross cutting parry that would have shattered the slender blade if Camilla had attempted to parry the stroke rather than dancing back once again.
“That little knitting needle isn’t going to stop me girl,” the bandit snarled.
“I’m going to..” whatever else he was going to do was lost in a scream of agony as the dwarf’s short handled axe hacked into the back of his knee in a spray of blood and popping tendon. The brute screamed like a cattle at slaughter and collapsed as his leg gave way. The dwarf stepped forward and, quite dispassionately split the bandits head from crown to nose with a second slash of his bloody axe.
“He dinnae know when to shut up,” the dwarf exclaimed in the sudden silence that followed. The only sound was the coachman who was by now retching in horror at the sudden and complete slaughter that had unfolded in the space of a few heart beats. Blood coated the road side and the bodies steamed in the chill winter air.
“My thanks Master Bjornson, might have been a real challenge with that great sword of his,” she admitted. Gunir Bjornson laughed derisively.
“Ye’da managed lass, ye always doo,” he said, wiping blood and brain matter from his axe blade onto the bandits cloak.
“Well I’m just as pleased I didn’t have to,” Camilla admitted. In the distance the sound of gunfire grew more intense, intermingled now with the clash of steel on steel. Camilla whipped her own blade clean with the tunic of a dead bandit.
“We had best get to it, sounds like Cydric might need our help despite his boasting,” she declared.
@POOHEAD189
GM
POOHEAD189 Warrior
Moderator
Seen
17 min ago
Fritz fell to the dirt of the camp, a musket ball having punched through his chest. The body fell limp right in front of Johan who cried out and dropped his porridge in fright. The lads about him began to scramble, calling for arms and running about trying to discern where the shots were being fired from. Some aimed at smoke in the trees thinking it gunsmoke, only to find it was the nightly mist creeping in from the drakwald around them. A second shot was fired and Johan felt wet, warm liquid coating his head as Oskar fell to the dirt. The bandit got to his feet, men shouldering past him with sabers and backswords. What men had blackpowder weaponry fired in vague directions into the forest wherever they imagined movement. The night was filled with moonlight from above, casting an eerie glow on the structured, military style camp they had hobbled together.
A strong, scarred bandit with a baskethilted broadsword strode by him as the shouting continued. One of the sergeants by the look of him. Johan passed by the man and blinked when he saw Gunter dead on the ground in front of him, blood pouring from a stab to the abdomen below his cuirass. The dead man's stare chilled him to the bone. More shots rang out and a cry was heard close by. Johan, focusing on Gunter backed up fearfully. He continued until he tripped himself up on another body. The bandit fell onto his ass hard, and he noticed the corpse had been Frankfurt, only he had been killed by another sword wound. By the rankness he had shitted himself. Johan began to feel a very mortal chill run down his spine, and he let out a very frightful squeal when he felt the hair grabbed at the top of his head. It was the last air that would escape his lips, as Cyrdic sliced open his throat with the edge of his broadsword.
Thank the Wolf and the Hammer Cyrdic hadn't taken the Graff's suggestion and brought more men. Cocking his pistol, he turned toward the center of camp and aimed at the confused mass. His weapon cracked a discharge and the pistol bullet hit a breastplate. The steel was of impressive make and the pistol ball didn't penetrate, but it ricocheted and struck the fellow next to it in the skull, killing him wordlessly.
"You!" One outlaws cried when he saw Cyrdic firing. He didn't get his sidesword up in time to keep his head. Cyrdic snarled, blood in the air as near half of the outlaws now lay dead or dying in the cold dirt. Another man leaped forward and met Cyrdic steel for steel, braver than his confused comrades. As Cyrdic fought, he felt an elation the likes of which he could only feel in battle, or when Camilla had rained kisses on him when he had been injured not four days past. He hadn't had the courage to bring it up again, which showed how well adjusted he was when slaughtering these men seemed an easier prospect. Not that he enjoyed it. In fact, this was likely one of his least favorite jobs taken. He didn't mind killing men who wanted him dead, but he had a problem with killing men of the empire who had done him no personal wrong, even thieves and outlaws.
Had Cyrdic come with six musketeers like originally planned, they would have drawn far too much attention to a certain area and more blood would have doubtlessly been spilled. But Cyrdic had the look of an ex-military bandit himself, mostly because he was almost exactly that, except trade in bandit for merc. All he had to do was cause confusion, then walk in alone as if he were one of them and butcher any loose ones until the mass of them fled. Only now three of them had gotten wise to his strategy, but the others decided to run towards the road where they knew their captain had gone. Cyrdic felt sorry for those men, having to deal with Camilla and the Dwarf. The Ostlander would have let them flee or even live if they had surrendered.
Cyrdic backstepped as he blocked a blow with his baskethilt, stepping by a tent so the structure could guard his left flank. He fought furiously against two men with sabers, Cyrdic managing to nick the helmetless one across the forehead, keeping the moment of his blade to smack aside the next leading saber. He rush forward and shouldered the man to fall over a pile of firewood, turning his body in time for the large norscan shield he had on his back to block the next cut. Cyrdic felt another blade cut at his leg, but he didn't hesitate to impale the man he'd thrown down, now leaping over the cooling body and holding his sword out to keep the other two at bay.
In the moonlight, Cyrdic looked like walking vengeance. Even after the cut at his leg, he stood poised and ready, free arm now slung within his norscan shield and bringing it to bear.
The last two bandits decided they wished to live, the older one patting the younger on the shoulder to indicate they back away, sabers out and eyes peeled as they stepped out of camp and disappeared into the drakwald. Cyrdic sighed, wincing from the pain of the cut but hear a brief period of battle to the east. He hurried, knowing Camilla and their stout companion were mopping up the last of them.
@Penny
A strong, scarred bandit with a baskethilted broadsword strode by him as the shouting continued. One of the sergeants by the look of him. Johan passed by the man and blinked when he saw Gunter dead on the ground in front of him, blood pouring from a stab to the abdomen below his cuirass. The dead man's stare chilled him to the bone. More shots rang out and a cry was heard close by. Johan, focusing on Gunter backed up fearfully. He continued until he tripped himself up on another body. The bandit fell onto his ass hard, and he noticed the corpse had been Frankfurt, only he had been killed by another sword wound. By the rankness he had shitted himself. Johan began to feel a very mortal chill run down his spine, and he let out a very frightful squeal when he felt the hair grabbed at the top of his head. It was the last air that would escape his lips, as Cyrdic sliced open his throat with the edge of his broadsword.
Thank the Wolf and the Hammer Cyrdic hadn't taken the Graff's suggestion and brought more men. Cocking his pistol, he turned toward the center of camp and aimed at the confused mass. His weapon cracked a discharge and the pistol bullet hit a breastplate. The steel was of impressive make and the pistol ball didn't penetrate, but it ricocheted and struck the fellow next to it in the skull, killing him wordlessly.
"You!" One outlaws cried when he saw Cyrdic firing. He didn't get his sidesword up in time to keep his head. Cyrdic snarled, blood in the air as near half of the outlaws now lay dead or dying in the cold dirt. Another man leaped forward and met Cyrdic steel for steel, braver than his confused comrades. As Cyrdic fought, he felt an elation the likes of which he could only feel in battle, or when Camilla had rained kisses on him when he had been injured not four days past. He hadn't had the courage to bring it up again, which showed how well adjusted he was when slaughtering these men seemed an easier prospect. Not that he enjoyed it. In fact, this was likely one of his least favorite jobs taken. He didn't mind killing men who wanted him dead, but he had a problem with killing men of the empire who had done him no personal wrong, even thieves and outlaws.
Had Cyrdic come with six musketeers like originally planned, they would have drawn far too much attention to a certain area and more blood would have doubtlessly been spilled. But Cyrdic had the look of an ex-military bandit himself, mostly because he was almost exactly that, except trade in bandit for merc. All he had to do was cause confusion, then walk in alone as if he were one of them and butcher any loose ones until the mass of them fled. Only now three of them had gotten wise to his strategy, but the others decided to run towards the road where they knew their captain had gone. Cyrdic felt sorry for those men, having to deal with Camilla and the Dwarf. The Ostlander would have let them flee or even live if they had surrendered.
Cyrdic backstepped as he blocked a blow with his baskethilt, stepping by a tent so the structure could guard his left flank. He fought furiously against two men with sabers, Cyrdic managing to nick the helmetless one across the forehead, keeping the moment of his blade to smack aside the next leading saber. He rush forward and shouldered the man to fall over a pile of firewood, turning his body in time for the large norscan shield he had on his back to block the next cut. Cyrdic felt another blade cut at his leg, but he didn't hesitate to impale the man he'd thrown down, now leaping over the cooling body and holding his sword out to keep the other two at bay.
In the moonlight, Cyrdic looked like walking vengeance. Even after the cut at his leg, he stood poised and ready, free arm now slung within his norscan shield and bringing it to bear.
The last two bandits decided they wished to live, the older one patting the younger on the shoulder to indicate they back away, sabers out and eyes peeled as they stepped out of camp and disappeared into the drakwald. Cyrdic sighed, wincing from the pain of the cut but hear a brief period of battle to the east. He hurried, knowing Camilla and their stout companion were mopping up the last of them.
@Penny
Camilla watched the surviving bandits turn and flee into the woods as they realized that the party of men their captain had led to ambush the coach was already decimated. She lay a hand on Gunir's shoulder to prevent the dwarf from giving chase, not that she could have stopped him if he wanted to press the issue of course. The Dwarf was two thirds her height but easily thrice her weight in corded muscle.
"Let them go," she advised as they vanished into the trees, "whatever they find in the Drakwald in a night like this is more than punishment enough."
"You manlings are too soft hearted," Gunir grumbled, but he didn't make any attempt to press the point. Camilla blew out a breath, which steamed in the cold air and climbed the shallow rise to the depression beyond in which the bandit camp lay. The had reconnoitered the place the previous night after Brunhilde Von Dounkebruk had hired them to break the virtual siege the band had enforced on the isolated valley since the late summer. It was already a hungry winter in Dounkebruk because trade had been strangled. The timber and furs on which the town depended had not been able to reach market without being subject to pillage or extortionate taxes. With most of the garrison away to the north fighting the remnants of Archaeon's great invasion, the handful of city watch, mostly old men and boys, hadn't been willing or able to deal with a score or more of bandits. By chance Camilla and Cydric, as well as Gunir and his wounded kinsmen Thor Grunegonson had reached the valley through the treacherous forrest paths that ran into the eastern hills. Their quest for fabled Hoard of the Dragon Kamac had ended in disaster when orcs had ambushed the mixed dwarven human force in the high passes. The dwarves had opted to trigger a rockslide with their explosives, cutting off purist but the four of them had been caught on the wrong side with the wounded Thor. They had been fortunate to make it to Dounkebruk before their food ran out, fortunate but poor. Dealing with the bandits was the easiest way to feed themselves as well as secure passage west before the snows closed the roads entirely. Judging by increasing flurry of white flakes they might be pushing their luck on that point also.
The bandit camp was much as she had seen it the previous night, a half dozen rude structures and a handful of cook fires curling smoke into the air. Where the previous night it had been full of swaggering boasting bandits, it was now deserted save for the bodies of the slain. Camilla caught sight of Cydric and sighed with relief. Though she wasn't one to admit it she always worried about him when she wasn't their to watch his back. Using the coach as a diversion had been her idea and Cydric had agreed, having correctly predicted that the bandits would split their forces rather than sending everyone out to rob a single coach. If that had happened Cydric could have simply set the camp on fire and she and Gunir would have run into the woods, allowing the cold to drive the bandits off as effectively as steel would have done.
"I see you didn't leave any for us!" Gunir grumped, unslinging his coach gun and beginning to reload the big weapon for the next time he might need it.
@POOHEAD189
"Let them go," she advised as they vanished into the trees, "whatever they find in the Drakwald in a night like this is more than punishment enough."
"You manlings are too soft hearted," Gunir grumbled, but he didn't make any attempt to press the point. Camilla blew out a breath, which steamed in the cold air and climbed the shallow rise to the depression beyond in which the bandit camp lay. The had reconnoitered the place the previous night after Brunhilde Von Dounkebruk had hired them to break the virtual siege the band had enforced on the isolated valley since the late summer. It was already a hungry winter in Dounkebruk because trade had been strangled. The timber and furs on which the town depended had not been able to reach market without being subject to pillage or extortionate taxes. With most of the garrison away to the north fighting the remnants of Archaeon's great invasion, the handful of city watch, mostly old men and boys, hadn't been willing or able to deal with a score or more of bandits. By chance Camilla and Cydric, as well as Gunir and his wounded kinsmen Thor Grunegonson had reached the valley through the treacherous forrest paths that ran into the eastern hills. Their quest for fabled Hoard of the Dragon Kamac had ended in disaster when orcs had ambushed the mixed dwarven human force in the high passes. The dwarves had opted to trigger a rockslide with their explosives, cutting off purist but the four of them had been caught on the wrong side with the wounded Thor. They had been fortunate to make it to Dounkebruk before their food ran out, fortunate but poor. Dealing with the bandits was the easiest way to feed themselves as well as secure passage west before the snows closed the roads entirely. Judging by increasing flurry of white flakes they might be pushing their luck on that point also.
The bandit camp was much as she had seen it the previous night, a half dozen rude structures and a handful of cook fires curling smoke into the air. Where the previous night it had been full of swaggering boasting bandits, it was now deserted save for the bodies of the slain. Camilla caught sight of Cydric and sighed with relief. Though she wasn't one to admit it she always worried about him when she wasn't their to watch his back. Using the coach as a diversion had been her idea and Cydric had agreed, having correctly predicted that the bandits would split their forces rather than sending everyone out to rob a single coach. If that had happened Cydric could have simply set the camp on fire and she and Gunir would have run into the woods, allowing the cold to drive the bandits off as effectively as steel would have done.
"I see you didn't leave any for us!" Gunir grumped, unslinging his coach gun and beginning to reload the big weapon for the next time he might need it.
@POOHEAD189
GM
POOHEAD189 Warrior
Moderator
Seen
17 min ago
"'You got the leader, I got the rest' remember?" Cyrdic replied, referring to a quip they had made earlier on their strategy.
The Ostlander felt the chill in the air now that the battle had waned, made all the more evident by the steam rising from his lips. He slung his shield back over his shoulder as he approached them at the crest of the small rise that ringed the camp. Producing an old stained rag, he ran it over the blade of his sword to give it a once over. He merely wanted to put it back in its scabbard, he would worry about a proper cleaning later. The muscled imperial felt the wound in his leg like ice, but judging by the lack of warm sensation from any real amount of blood, it was mostly superficial.
"Besides, we're not getting paid extra for headcounts." Cyrdic reasoned. It was a simple merc job with an objective in mind. Not a hunt for bounties. With that he checked Camilla with a quick look on if she was harmed. She did the same with him, though she was a bit more confident in how she did so, circling him and finding the spot in his leg, muttering in Tilean, likely at how foolhardy Cyrdic was. Gunir didn't notice any of it at all.
"Don't remind me." The Dwarf chuckled. "Twenty Krowns each for lifting the siege. I can barely buy a twelve mug of Bugman's for that!"
"Well, human beer's cheaper." Cyrdic said simply, and both he and the Dwarf grinned and gave a laugh. Referring to a massive rant Gunir had made when they had first met, detailing all the vices manling drink had along with its one virtue. Of course Gunir had a point, that was ridiculously low for fighting a battle that was five to one. But with forty krowns between him and Camilla, they could feed themselves for weeks provided they didn't throw caution to the wind with their earnings. Even considering the inflated food prices in a starving town.
@Penny
The Ostlander felt the chill in the air now that the battle had waned, made all the more evident by the steam rising from his lips. He slung his shield back over his shoulder as he approached them at the crest of the small rise that ringed the camp. Producing an old stained rag, he ran it over the blade of his sword to give it a once over. He merely wanted to put it back in its scabbard, he would worry about a proper cleaning later. The muscled imperial felt the wound in his leg like ice, but judging by the lack of warm sensation from any real amount of blood, it was mostly superficial.
"Besides, we're not getting paid extra for headcounts." Cyrdic reasoned. It was a simple merc job with an objective in mind. Not a hunt for bounties. With that he checked Camilla with a quick look on if she was harmed. She did the same with him, though she was a bit more confident in how she did so, circling him and finding the spot in his leg, muttering in Tilean, likely at how foolhardy Cyrdic was. Gunir didn't notice any of it at all.
"Don't remind me." The Dwarf chuckled. "Twenty Krowns each for lifting the siege. I can barely buy a twelve mug of Bugman's for that!"
"Well, human beer's cheaper." Cyrdic said simply, and both he and the Dwarf grinned and gave a laugh. Referring to a massive rant Gunir had made when they had first met, detailing all the vices manling drink had along with its one virtue. Of course Gunir had a point, that was ridiculously low for fighting a battle that was five to one. But with forty krowns between him and Camilla, they could feed themselves for weeks provided they didn't throw caution to the wind with their earnings. Even considering the inflated food prices in a starving town.
@Penny
"I still say its soft hearted," Gunir muttered but it was clear that the dwarf didn't really have the heart to run down the fleeing brigands. Given it was midwinters night and they had nowhere to go but the forest it might not have been the more ruthless option. The snow was already beginning to fall more heavily and the temperature was dropping fast enough that Camilla wished she hadn't left her cloak back in the carriage. Camilla had met a wizard a few weeks ago who had told her that Archaeon's forces had used sorcery to control the weather and that the backlash would make this winter a particularly bitter one as the spell crumbled. The blonde wizard had seemed rather a dizzy libertine to Camilla, but perhaps she knew her business.
"I don't want you out here any longer on that leg," Camilla scolded Cydric, fussing over the wound for a minute. The big Ostlander smiled patiently.
"Then by all mean lets finish up here and find a fire," he suggested.
"And some beer," Gunir put in from the side. Camilla nodded and drew a length of burning timber from the fire, holding it close and savoring the warmth.
"Fine lets get to it," she agreed. A brief search of the camp turned up little in the way of loot. A few skins of questionable wine, a poorly concealed lock box with a handful of silver and a second rate ruby, and some sewing needles and other odds and ends pillaged from traders. The biggest find was made by Gunir who rolled out two kegs of what appeared to be smoked herring and a sack full of barley. Camilla was pleased that they had made no promises regarding loot as the food would certainly have been taken. The coming winter was going to be a hungry one. With most of the manpower of the Empire campaigning in the north for the long harvest months, crops had withered on the vine for want of labor to bring them in. Armies on the march and the accompanying looting had destroyed fields and orchards and granaries and stockpiles had been emptied by Imperial Order or by pillage. Worst still the enormous casualties which had been sustained meant that even after the bitter winter passed, there would be a serious shortage of men to replant in the spring. Hunger and the accompanying horror of disease would carry off as many as Acheron's horde had done, probably more. Camilla could understand the contempt in which men of the Empire held southerners who had not suffered the scourge of the Chaos invasion, and who through no efforts of their own, would go to be with full bellies.
"We best be getting back," Camilla decided as Gunir hefted a keg over each shoulder and kicked the sack of barley to Cydric. She hefted her still burning timber in her hand and then tossed it underhanded onto the thatch of one of the nearby hovels. Methodically she repeated the act for each of the other structures until the crackle of burning thatch and timber filled the air. The winter winds fanned the flames hot enough that the snow didn't douse them. Destroying the structures meant the bandits had nothing to come back to and that Dounkebruk would be safe from bandits, at least until the spring.
"Aye, a heroes welcome awaits no doubt," Gunir chuckled as they turned and headed towards the waiting carriage, the flames growing behind them.
Dounkebruk was a peaceful looking place. It was nestled on a small knoll beside the river that ran through the center of the small valley. The half timbered buildings had high peaked that were now covered with a crip layer of snow and a palisade wall of stout ashwood encircled it, with watch towers thrusting up at regular intervals. Bough of holly hung from doorways in celebration of the festival, although most families were already inside around their fires by the time the Gräfin's coach clattered up the stone cobbled streets. Predictably the highest point of the town was the seat of power. A stone temple to Sigmar stood on one side of a square, facing off against the ornately carved façade of the guildhall of the towns burgermisters. A third building, less prepossessing than its neighbors covered the northern side of the square. The great hall was the center of government for Dounkebruk and the surrounding valley and though the Gräfin had a private house of considerable splendor, she lived and worked in the rambling two story stone hall which had grown up in earlier times. Rumor had it that the Graf, now in advanced years, had lost his mind entirely and that his younger, though not young, wife preferred to avoid the town house. It was surrounded by a stone wall with an imposing set of wrought iron gates, kept meticulously free of rust by the efforts of the Gräfin's servants. Armed guards, older men smoking pipes and with handguns leaned against the stone wall watched them approach without comment.
"Home sweet home," Gunir observed with a chuckle that sounded like rocks grinding.
"I don't want you out here any longer on that leg," Camilla scolded Cydric, fussing over the wound for a minute. The big Ostlander smiled patiently.
"Then by all mean lets finish up here and find a fire," he suggested.
"And some beer," Gunir put in from the side. Camilla nodded and drew a length of burning timber from the fire, holding it close and savoring the warmth.
"Fine lets get to it," she agreed. A brief search of the camp turned up little in the way of loot. A few skins of questionable wine, a poorly concealed lock box with a handful of silver and a second rate ruby, and some sewing needles and other odds and ends pillaged from traders. The biggest find was made by Gunir who rolled out two kegs of what appeared to be smoked herring and a sack full of barley. Camilla was pleased that they had made no promises regarding loot as the food would certainly have been taken. The coming winter was going to be a hungry one. With most of the manpower of the Empire campaigning in the north for the long harvest months, crops had withered on the vine for want of labor to bring them in. Armies on the march and the accompanying looting had destroyed fields and orchards and granaries and stockpiles had been emptied by Imperial Order or by pillage. Worst still the enormous casualties which had been sustained meant that even after the bitter winter passed, there would be a serious shortage of men to replant in the spring. Hunger and the accompanying horror of disease would carry off as many as Acheron's horde had done, probably more. Camilla could understand the contempt in which men of the Empire held southerners who had not suffered the scourge of the Chaos invasion, and who through no efforts of their own, would go to be with full bellies.
"We best be getting back," Camilla decided as Gunir hefted a keg over each shoulder and kicked the sack of barley to Cydric. She hefted her still burning timber in her hand and then tossed it underhanded onto the thatch of one of the nearby hovels. Methodically she repeated the act for each of the other structures until the crackle of burning thatch and timber filled the air. The winter winds fanned the flames hot enough that the snow didn't douse them. Destroying the structures meant the bandits had nothing to come back to and that Dounkebruk would be safe from bandits, at least until the spring.
"Aye, a heroes welcome awaits no doubt," Gunir chuckled as they turned and headed towards the waiting carriage, the flames growing behind them.
Dounkebruk was a peaceful looking place. It was nestled on a small knoll beside the river that ran through the center of the small valley. The half timbered buildings had high peaked that were now covered with a crip layer of snow and a palisade wall of stout ashwood encircled it, with watch towers thrusting up at regular intervals. Bough of holly hung from doorways in celebration of the festival, although most families were already inside around their fires by the time the Gräfin's coach clattered up the stone cobbled streets. Predictably the highest point of the town was the seat of power. A stone temple to Sigmar stood on one side of a square, facing off against the ornately carved façade of the guildhall of the towns burgermisters. A third building, less prepossessing than its neighbors covered the northern side of the square. The great hall was the center of government for Dounkebruk and the surrounding valley and though the Gräfin had a private house of considerable splendor, she lived and worked in the rambling two story stone hall which had grown up in earlier times. Rumor had it that the Graf, now in advanced years, had lost his mind entirely and that his younger, though not young, wife preferred to avoid the town house. It was surrounded by a stone wall with an imposing set of wrought iron gates, kept meticulously free of rust by the efforts of the Gräfin's servants. Armed guards, older men smoking pipes and with handguns leaned against the stone wall watched them approach without comment.
"Home sweet home," Gunir observed with a chuckle that sounded like rocks grinding.
GM
POOHEAD189 Warrior
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Seen
17 min ago
The three of them had been packed into the little carriage, mostly because of their considerable equipment rather than their bulk, though Gunir's girth didn't do them any favors. The clopping of their mount and the clattering of the wheels on the uneven stone road that circled the three large structures might not awaken the neighbors but the servants certainly took notice. The Graf's personal butler, a hook nosed gentlemen in a fine coat, and a few other staff members were there to greet them, utterly relieved at the good news they brought with their arrival. The three were ushered in to the great hall, with Camilla making a note for them to prepare Cyrdic and her quarters so she could help bandage him up. Cyrdic had insisted she take the cot whilst he slept on the ground amid what blankets they could find, but he saw a new argument brewing now that he was injured, a light wound though it was.
Cyrdic and Gunir sat down at the long dining table in the hall whilst servants went to and fro with various tasks. Gunir called for drinks and Cyrdic couldn't disagree, ordering one for he and Camilla to enjoy.
"Let's celebrate, we'll worry on other stuff later. Ok?" Cyrdic said to the Tilean, grabbing her hand. She deflated and nodded stiffly, plopping down next to him and taking her drink.
"Un drink." She said, bringing a smile to the Ostlander's face. They often recited the Tilean translation of 'one drink' to one another just before they went on a binge, but this time Cyrdic wasn't going to not take it face value. It was late for them anyway, so he took the mug and downed half of it in an impressive feat of practiced alcoholism.
"I'll celebrate when I get my gold!" Gunir roared, sliding his already emptied mug away. "Ye think there's any chance we'll get the krowns this century?" He asked, whilst raising a finger for a servant to refill his mug. A young boy came over nervously to do so. Cyrdic thought he was intimidated by the Dwarf at first, but he couldn't take his eyes off Camilla. Cyrdic grinned and finished his drink.
Four pouches were dropping on the table in front of them by the steward of Dounkebruk, a fellow called Richter Von Haldst. His broad face and easy-going manner belied a shrewd mind, if Cyrdic had to guess. The fellow wore three stripes over blue white blue over his left shoulder to denote his rank, which was apparently the style this side of Middenheim. "The Graf and I recognize the bravery it took for you three to open the roads again and drive off the scum. We thank you Herr Becker, Master Dwarf, and Fraulien Contessa. As a special thanks, your first two drinks will be free. Any after that will have to be put on a tab..."
Gunir, with two empty mugs and a raised finger, slowly lowered his hand and glowered.
Cyrdic and Gunir sat down at the long dining table in the hall whilst servants went to and fro with various tasks. Gunir called for drinks and Cyrdic couldn't disagree, ordering one for he and Camilla to enjoy.
"Let's celebrate, we'll worry on other stuff later. Ok?" Cyrdic said to the Tilean, grabbing her hand. She deflated and nodded stiffly, plopping down next to him and taking her drink.
"Un drink." She said, bringing a smile to the Ostlander's face. They often recited the Tilean translation of 'one drink' to one another just before they went on a binge, but this time Cyrdic wasn't going to not take it face value. It was late for them anyway, so he took the mug and downed half of it in an impressive feat of practiced alcoholism.
"I'll celebrate when I get my gold!" Gunir roared, sliding his already emptied mug away. "Ye think there's any chance we'll get the krowns this century?" He asked, whilst raising a finger for a servant to refill his mug. A young boy came over nervously to do so. Cyrdic thought he was intimidated by the Dwarf at first, but he couldn't take his eyes off Camilla. Cyrdic grinned and finished his drink.
Four pouches were dropping on the table in front of them by the steward of Dounkebruk, a fellow called Richter Von Haldst. His broad face and easy-going manner belied a shrewd mind, if Cyrdic had to guess. The fellow wore three stripes over blue white blue over his left shoulder to denote his rank, which was apparently the style this side of Middenheim. "The Graf and I recognize the bravery it took for you three to open the roads again and drive off the scum. We thank you Herr Becker, Master Dwarf, and Fraulien Contessa. As a special thanks, your first two drinks will be free. Any after that will have to be put on a tab..."
Gunir, with two empty mugs and a raised finger, slowly lowered his hand and glowered.
Camilla's eyes snapped open. Cydric's warm body was pressed against her, the steady rise and fall of his chest soothing in the near darkness. Gunir by contrast snored like a thunderstorm, each outbreath punctuated by a curious whoop. Thor, Gunir's wounded kinsman wheezed a counterpoint on the same theme. It wasn't the snoring that had woken her she was sure, having had a great deal of practice sleeping in army camps over the past year or so. At the siege of Konigsberg she had even slept while the Imperial guns boomed round the clock to reduce the walls of that ancient citadel. Something here was wrong. The fire that had blazed in the hearth of the great hall had declined to a deep red glow that poped and sizzled as the last of the timbers crumbled into flickers of flame. They had slept in the hall in the fashion of old Imperial retainers rather than seeking one of the few inns in the town. None of them had been willing to extend credit to the bedraggled adventuers who had stumbled out of the hills, and they were filthy and lice ridden places besides. A half dozen other figures lay slumped in sleep on pallets or on furs like Camilla and Cydric.
"Cydric," Camilla whispered in a voice so quiet that it was swallowed by the soft whistle of wind outside. Her lover didn't stir but at the end of the hall one of the shadows seemed to still. Camilla felt her heart rise up into her throat. She badly wanted to believe it was just a trick of the light cast by the dying fire but somehow she knew it wasn't anything so begin.
"Alle Armi!" she shouted in Tilean and leaped from under the fur lined blankets, snatching her rapier from where it hung from the arm of a carved bench. The shadows exploded into motion surging forward into the hall. A man screamed as he was woken by a blow that must have disembowled him for the red flash of glittering blood. Shout of alarm went up from a half dozen throats as the naked Tilean leveled her blade at the onrushing shadow and thrust. The blade bit into the things body and stuck as fast as if she had thrust it into the oak door of a tavern, the blade bowed and would have snapped if Camilla hadn't leaped backwards. She had a momentary impression of a tree, its branches grown into long sharp schythe like arms before the creature seized her and lifted her into the air. Camilla let go of her sword and twisted as the thing lifted her over head, kicking of the stone wall. The thing was strong but her momentum was enough to topple it over with a crash. The hall was in pandemonium now, the tree things had ripped several of the armsmen to pieces, but others were armed and fighting back. She could hear Gunir roaring and cursing all manlings for craven fools. Camilla hit the ground and tried to execute a throw, but the thing that held her was two heavy, its branches squeezed her wrist painful as it drew back another limb for a death stroke. Timber shattered in spray of icy sap as Cydric brought his bastard sword down with both hands. Unlike Camilla's slender blade it sheered clean through, propelled by Cydric's prodigious strength.
"Elvish treachery!" Gunir howled, his axe hewing another of the creatures appart. They didn't look like any elves Camilla had ever heard of, but this wasn't the time to worry about it. Alarm bells were beginning to ring as cries of alarm spread from the hall into the city proper. Camilla seized one of the severed branches and cast it into the fire. Light flared up as the wood exploded into flames. The nightmarish creatures turned to stare hatefully at her with their cold eyes. Besides Cydric and herself the two dwarves were the only surviovrs in the hall, though several of the strange tree creatures had been hacked and splintered by the Graffin's guardsmen before they had been bludgeoned down and torn apart. Each of the trees was taller than a man and carved with strange twisting runes. They looked ghastly, smeared with the gore of their victims. Camilla counted a half dozen, though from the screams coming from the streets there must be more outside. With a wordless how the things rushed forward at the survivors. Cydric stepped in front of the disarmed Camilla and hacked at one of the onrushing trees. Another brushed Gunir aside and seized Thor, lifting the injured dwarf up into the sky. There was an enormous boom and shower of splinters as somehow Thor had managed to snag the coachgun from Gunir's belongings. The tree thing crashed to the ground dropping the dwarf who cursed in his own tongue. Camilla skipped backwards looking for a weapon and finding none, instead she snatched up a burning length of timber and brandished it before her.
"Cydric," Camilla whispered in a voice so quiet that it was swallowed by the soft whistle of wind outside. Her lover didn't stir but at the end of the hall one of the shadows seemed to still. Camilla felt her heart rise up into her throat. She badly wanted to believe it was just a trick of the light cast by the dying fire but somehow she knew it wasn't anything so begin.
"Alle Armi!" she shouted in Tilean and leaped from under the fur lined blankets, snatching her rapier from where it hung from the arm of a carved bench. The shadows exploded into motion surging forward into the hall. A man screamed as he was woken by a blow that must have disembowled him for the red flash of glittering blood. Shout of alarm went up from a half dozen throats as the naked Tilean leveled her blade at the onrushing shadow and thrust. The blade bit into the things body and stuck as fast as if she had thrust it into the oak door of a tavern, the blade bowed and would have snapped if Camilla hadn't leaped backwards. She had a momentary impression of a tree, its branches grown into long sharp schythe like arms before the creature seized her and lifted her into the air. Camilla let go of her sword and twisted as the thing lifted her over head, kicking of the stone wall. The thing was strong but her momentum was enough to topple it over with a crash. The hall was in pandemonium now, the tree things had ripped several of the armsmen to pieces, but others were armed and fighting back. She could hear Gunir roaring and cursing all manlings for craven fools. Camilla hit the ground and tried to execute a throw, but the thing that held her was two heavy, its branches squeezed her wrist painful as it drew back another limb for a death stroke. Timber shattered in spray of icy sap as Cydric brought his bastard sword down with both hands. Unlike Camilla's slender blade it sheered clean through, propelled by Cydric's prodigious strength.
"Elvish treachery!" Gunir howled, his axe hewing another of the creatures appart. They didn't look like any elves Camilla had ever heard of, but this wasn't the time to worry about it. Alarm bells were beginning to ring as cries of alarm spread from the hall into the city proper. Camilla seized one of the severed branches and cast it into the fire. Light flared up as the wood exploded into flames. The nightmarish creatures turned to stare hatefully at her with their cold eyes. Besides Cydric and herself the two dwarves were the only surviovrs in the hall, though several of the strange tree creatures had been hacked and splintered by the Graffin's guardsmen before they had been bludgeoned down and torn apart. Each of the trees was taller than a man and carved with strange twisting runes. They looked ghastly, smeared with the gore of their victims. Camilla counted a half dozen, though from the screams coming from the streets there must be more outside. With a wordless how the things rushed forward at the survivors. Cydric stepped in front of the disarmed Camilla and hacked at one of the onrushing trees. Another brushed Gunir aside and seized Thor, lifting the injured dwarf up into the sky. There was an enormous boom and shower of splinters as somehow Thor had managed to snag the coachgun from Gunir's belongings. The tree thing crashed to the ground dropping the dwarf who cursed in his own tongue. Camilla skipped backwards looking for a weapon and finding none, instead she snatched up a burning length of timber and brandished it before her.
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POOHEAD189 Warrior
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17 min ago
"It's Elvish treachery I'm telling you!" Gunir implored, waving his axe around as his brother limped over to him, reloading his blunderbuss with typical Dwarfish practicality. Cyrdic's broadsword blade was stained, having seen better days. It was made for cutting flesh, not chopping wood. He turned stepped up to stand by Camilla, the firebrand she wielded illuminated her naked body, which caused him to flush. He wanted to cover her for protection and an odd sense of modesty, but now wasn't the time. Usually he had the typical bullheaded Ostlander focus, but love made things strange. The creaking of the animated trees brought his attention back to the battle at hand.
"If Elves do stuff like this, no wonder you hate them." Cyrdic remarked.
"See? The manling gets it!" Gunir said.
It was then the saplings unleashed their fury. They moved with strange, heavy movements. Cyrdic thought them like men wearing weighted boots and corsets even Camilla would cringe to wear, restricted at the center and swaying in odd ways. It made them hard to predict, which Cyrdic found the hard way when a branch nearly slit his throat. Raising his forearm just in time, he cut through the thin appendage and stabbed into the trunk hard, causing the monster to wheeze a hiss from its gaping mouth just when Camilla set the top of its 'head' on fire from her brand. Meanwhile the two Dwarfs seemed all too happy to hack and chop and shoot three of the trees that attempted to pummel the brothers. As one might guess, rock is harder than wood and the Dawi came out the tougher.
Cyrdic backstepped after taking a nasty cut to the shoulder, eyes falling on an oil lamp just to his left. Quickly he slammed his sword into it, oil spilling on his blade which caused a flame to roar to life. Needless to say his counter sheared through the sapling with more damage than before, setting it alight to screech. With his powerful leg, he stamped his foot on it and sent it on its back, stabbing the fiery sword deeper into it until it was fully illuminated. Camilla had already done the same to the last of the six trees, having danced around its swinging branches like the dancer she had once been.
"Damned bewitched kindling!" A Dwarf cursed.
"Ceedric! You' shouder!" Camilla called with her full accent, putting the brand down and pressing on the wound of his shoulder. He was glad for the attention, but they weren't out of the fight yet.
"Get dressed, we need to move. Everyone else could be dead." He told her, and kissed her on the lips for good measure.
"If Elves do stuff like this, no wonder you hate them." Cyrdic remarked.
"See? The manling gets it!" Gunir said.
It was then the saplings unleashed their fury. They moved with strange, heavy movements. Cyrdic thought them like men wearing weighted boots and corsets even Camilla would cringe to wear, restricted at the center and swaying in odd ways. It made them hard to predict, which Cyrdic found the hard way when a branch nearly slit his throat. Raising his forearm just in time, he cut through the thin appendage and stabbed into the trunk hard, causing the monster to wheeze a hiss from its gaping mouth just when Camilla set the top of its 'head' on fire from her brand. Meanwhile the two Dwarfs seemed all too happy to hack and chop and shoot three of the trees that attempted to pummel the brothers. As one might guess, rock is harder than wood and the Dawi came out the tougher.
Cyrdic backstepped after taking a nasty cut to the shoulder, eyes falling on an oil lamp just to his left. Quickly he slammed his sword into it, oil spilling on his blade which caused a flame to roar to life. Needless to say his counter sheared through the sapling with more damage than before, setting it alight to screech. With his powerful leg, he stamped his foot on it and sent it on its back, stabbing the fiery sword deeper into it until it was fully illuminated. Camilla had already done the same to the last of the six trees, having danced around its swinging branches like the dancer she had once been.
"Damned bewitched kindling!" A Dwarf cursed.
"Ceedric! You' shouder!" Camilla called with her full accent, putting the brand down and pressing on the wound of his shoulder. He was glad for the attention, but they weren't out of the fight yet.
"Get dressed, we need to move. Everyone else could be dead." He told her, and kissed her on the lips for good measure.
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