Hidden 1 yr ago 1 yr ago Post by HereComesTheSnow
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Gerard Segremors

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The wind pushed his face back, pulling at the skin. His eyes risked going dry in the surge of motion— but his gaze wouldn't err, nor would he blink. If he did, he would miss the opportunity, and sail into the void. Where the golden disks once blazed with all the fury of Reon's mighty chariot, instead it was pure, dutiful purpose that breathed into them this life.

Beneath the gloves of black leather, stained with the blood and viscera of the once-and-again living, his grip had not shifted, even with the sudden shock of watching the Hero turn aside the strike, and with it, him. Indeed, they felt, if anything, more sure than even the white-knuckled, frenetic hold that accompanied his previous rushes.

He soared. The vertigo was familiar by now. It would no longer affect his judgement— though he had little sense for truly aerial combat, a third goddamn ride as this ad-hoc simulation of a catapult's payload left him old hand enough at managing. He'd manage. Hell with all of it. He could do it.

Finish this.

His bones shivered with the pulse of intent. His muscles tightened. His mind grew sharp as any blade that had taken the field— even the Hero's own. Beneath it, he felt, comprehended, in spite of an uneducated, simple mind that knew not its possibility. Two words, laced with a legend that spanned a lifetime. With the command, dignity, and trust that made it hard-pressed for any knight that came up within his wake to turn against. With the full life that had once lived, and the soul's unspoken request that it return to beyond. Through them, came simple clarity.

He could see it all clearly. Nothing left to do but grit the teeth, and execute.

Watch me.

Ever the dutiful soldier, Gerard let the arc of his launch carry him to the zenith, past the horde, past the captain, past the Nem hostage—

And brought the morning star crashing down onto the still-writhing, handless necromancer, behind it all the speed, weight, and commitment he could muster.

Erich Cazt himself had put him on the job—

He would see it done.
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There was a polite clap at the back of the room, the demonic onlooker straightening from her slouch against the wall. "Bravo, Iron Roses! This was an exciting evening. You thwarted an assassination, hunted down the one that ordered it, and did it without a single innocent casualty." There was a brief pause while she cocked her head, "Well, there was Alfrid, but he was looking for this."

There was the sound of cracking knuckles as the red-skinned girl stretched her arms overhead, before pouting, "Though, couldn't you have been sloppier? You lost me a bet, I was so sure Damon's plans were going to backfire. Now I owe him even more."

"Well, I'll be excited to see what you're up to next. Cheerio~"

And with a deep purple shimmer, the demon was gone.
Hidden 1 yr ago 1 yr ago Post by Crimson Paladin
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Fleuri Jodeau


It was easy to forget the humanity of one's foes, especially during the heat of an intense fight. It was ordinarily quite unwise to consider such nuances in battle, because even a brief moment of hesitation or distraction could get a knight killed. Just like with Sir Rickard. Even so it was a melancholy sight to see a dying opponent overcoming the fear of the end, the excruciating pain of a fatal wound, and any grudge against his killer to face his end with dignity and use his last living moments to plead for the life of another. It wasn't a common thing, that was for sure.

"I'll do what I can, you have my word," Fleuri assured the dying warrior, raising the visor of his borrowed helmet, as to allow his foe to see his face and to give the man some assurance that his words weren't being received by a a heartless sheet of steel. There wasn't much else he could do there- there was no patching up this wound, and even if he could somehow save the warrior, to a northern warrior like him, it might even be considered a grave trespass to deny him a worthy death like this.

Fleuri was so distracted by the warrior's death, so caught up in not wanting the warrior to breathe his last alone, that when he looked up, he realized he was the only one left in the upper chamber. All the others had descended to continue their mission. After sheathing Candlestick and recovering his greatsword, he hustled down the stairs and deeper into the tomb. He could not allow himself to fail his fellow knights by falling behind.

When Fleuri reached where the others had congregrated, following the sound of the clash of metal and the cracking of lightning, he took a second to assess what what was going on. The first thing he noticed was that none of the Iron Roses had fallen. This was good- he didn't want them to have a repeat with Sir Rickard. The second thing was the foes they faced- several undead, a necromancer- no doubt the leader that the Nem mentioned, and near him, the Nem hostage. There was a female mage- presumably the mage woman mentioned by both the Nem and Alfrid- and an armored warrior battling the knights. The second warrior in the Nem's description of the conspirators, perhaps?

It took another moment for Fleuri register the warrior's armor.

Erich Cazt, the Demonbreaker.

Fleuri desperately hoped that he was a mindless undead controlled by the necromancer, and not a willing undead participant in this treasonous conspiracy. Part of his hope was because Erich was a formidable warrior in life and would be very difficult to take down if he was still in his prime, but most of it was because Fleuri desperately didn't want to believe that such a great hero could fall so far.

What followed upon his arrival would quickly answer that question. An arrow shot by Dame Cecilia sliced the necromancer's arm off, releasing his hold on the hostage. At this point, Fleuri watched as the armored figure of Erich grabbing Gerard and throwing him towards the necromancer, before ceasing his movements. Having fought necromancers himself, he was able to recognize the sight of a one's control over a minion slip, but the sight of an undead momentarily regaining its wits to turn upon its controller was something he had not previously witnessed.

Fleuri saw little need to mop up the remaining undead. Any that remained should fall once the former mercenary brought Armand Jodeau's morningstar down upon the necromancer.

It looked like another victory for the Iron Roses.

Just then, he noticed another figure in the room- a shadowy figure leaning against the wall, sarcastically congratulating them and mentioning a certain Damon who according to her had somehow weaved his own plans into this. Fleuri had no idea what she meant, however. Before he or any other could ask, the shadowy woman vanished.

What was that about?

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Lein



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Lein had his last remaining arrow trained on the witch as the fight concluded, the bow giving the last bit of strength as the Hundi pulled the limbs to its breaking point. An arrow, point blank. Whatever strange arrow-bending trickery she had, Lein would just punch through it at this distance, barely a few paces away. Break something of mine and you'll pay with your eyeballs. He caught a snarled warning in his throat as the witch suddenly pivoted away and launched a bolt at the necromancer, shattering his barrier. A betrayal? Could be. That was one less lightning bolt Lein had to catch. Still, Lein remained unwavering in his caution, only shifting to let the undead drop their aggression towards him and rush past in a futile attempt to defend their master. A plenty of rats ate each other when cornered.

Only when the witch lowered her arms did Lein lower his aim, confident that the rest of the knights could finish off the exposed necromancer and sweep up whatever remained of Erich. And that should she decide to throw around careless threats like that again, he'd nail her scalp to the wall before she'd finish her breath. He didn't know much about the strange sorcery that caused her to glow like that, but it was clear she needed some time to wind up - a far slower draw time than his. Lein approached the witch cautiously, bow at his side and away to match the pretense of non-hostility.

"'Preciate the turn, but you'll have to show your hand a bit." Lein nodded to the soon-to-be pulverized necromancer. "Can't imagine a witch of your endeavor running around with his spindly ass like that for the company he keeps." Or for the demon. Or for the vampire. As far as he could tell, the witch and the Barukstaedian warrior was a pair, though that didn't explain much, and he'd gain nothing mentioning it and aggravating her.

"Besides, might be your only time to sing before those knights come crawling over to ferry you off, so - what kinda trick roped you into this?" Help or no, genuine or not, the witch was one of the conspirators' associates. Unless the Roses for some reason decided to risk an incident with Lady Cazt and refuse to hand the witch over or cover up the witch's tracks, Lein fully expected the Roses to jail her. He didn't trust the witch either, but something kept Lein on edge. A phantom itch that alluded to some shift of the hand that he didn't catch in the background, a sleeve that swallowed a coin and turned up blank. This witch could be the last remaining chances to dig it up. And Lein sure as hell wanted a good enough explanation that would assuage his annoyances.
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The Necromancer was rounding on the lightning witch, his staff glowing as his undead swarmed towards him to form a barrier.

"Damn you, you bi-"

There was a flash of light and wind as Cecilia's arrow found its target, striking him in the left arm, the one clutching his hostage. The tissue of his shoulder was severed in an instant, the burst of air sending him staggering back with a strangled cry of agony as he lost both his living shield and one of his limbs, blood spurting through the air.

It was at that very moment, as he stumbled back with a gasp, that his control faltered.

While the mindless, rank and file undead continued to due their critically wounded master's bidding, it was evident that the legendary corpse did not, sending Gerard hurtling towards the bleeding masked man as he struggled to stay upright.

There was a wet crunch.

Sir Gerard's mace found its target, and Fanilly slowed to a halt as she watched the crushing force strike their enemy square in the chest. Almost certainly, his ribs were shattered, and it was quite likely his own bones now skewered his internal organs as he was lifted clean off his feet and sent hurtling backwards from the impact.

Blood splattered across the wall as he struck it, from the severed stump of his left arm.

It seemed like a moment or two passed before he slid down the wall and hit his knees.

He didn't move.

Fanilly lowered her sword, eshaling heavily, as her blue eyes travelled over the trembling body of the conspirators' prisoner.

"... Check the prisoner, and unbind her," she said, swiftly. While the nem didn't appear to be seriously harmed, there was no way of being certain that was the case until they got a closer look. She noticed the voice from behind hem, from what could only be a demon, but she simply couldn't focus on it any longer.

They'd managed to stop it. To save the prisoner, and bring an end o this conspiracy.

The remaining undead now stood still, swaying slightly but otherwise entirely unmoving.

Shouldn't they have fallen by now?

"Kh... kill... you... I'll kill... I'll kill you... I'll..."

The ragged voice came from the slumped body of the necromancer.

He wasn't dead yet, but it wouldn't be long. The head of his catalyst was flashing, magical energy gathering around it and fading as he tried and failed to breath properly. Blood ran from his mouth and nose, down the front of his clothing, from his severed left shoulder.

There was no way of knowing if he was truly able to threaten them in his last moments.

Fanilly resolved to do what was necessary.

She approached, and the staff glowed just a little brighter.

"Kill you... I'll kill y-you... I'll-!"

The Knight-Captain's blade flashed.

The necromancer's head hit the floor, and he spoke no longer.

The Lightning Witch didn't speak, at least not immediately, as the undead collapsed around her. Instead, she walked over to the axe, slowly sinking to her knees.

Taking it in both hands, she clutched it, embracing it to her slim frame.

When she finally spoke to Lein, her voice was soft, and quiet. Her face was hidden by her hat.

"... It was never supposed to go this way, not until he showed up," she murmured, the 'he' left ambiguous, "Then those bastards came, then it ended up like this, taking a prisoner and killing a princess and..."

She trailed off, still holding the axe tightly.

"... I... I-I need to take care of him... He needs me to take care of him."

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Hidden 12 mos ago Post by Crimson Paladin
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Fleuri Jodeau


The necromancer managed to survive Gerard's attack, his chest caved in but still evidently clinging to life. Fortunately, Fanilly stepped forward and shut that dead-defiling windbag up for good. With the necromancer dead, his minions would fall with him. Erich would no doubt follow, although it was warmed Fleuri's heart to see that the famed Demonbreaker would return to death not as a necromancer's defiled puppet, but as the shining knight that he was in life. Armand Jodeau would surely be proud that his arms were used in this victory.

This ought to be be recorded the books, Fleuri felt. After the War of the Red Flag, the account of the Demonbreaker breaking free of a necromancer's hold and returning to his former glory to bring about the death of his tomb's desecrator was a tale that needed to be told, to serve as a reminder that even in its most disgraced hour, the heroism of House Cazt never died.

As for the lightning witch, she made no effort to continue to fight. For all intents and purposes, she was defeated. However, Fleuri still had his word to keep to Alfrid.

"Captain, I believe she's speaking the truth," he spoke up. "That warrior...Alfrid...in his last moments, he asked to not drag her any further into this, said that she's only here because of him. Just someone who got involved in the wrong crowd at the wrong time."

The authorities wouldn't be able to let her go, of course, but if both she and Alfrid spoke the truth, she wouldn't deserve to be treated as a ringleader of this conspiracy.

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Hidden 12 mos ago 12 mos ago Post by Conscripts
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Steffen Gravinir


Steffen was fully expecting an attack, if not certain death, from the witch. For such a dangerous gambit, having no intention of just keeling over and accepting death, there wasn't much hesitation or fear both from appearance and actuality, something unlike previous fights that he was a little surprised afterwards, as the surge of the moment faded away and that she decided to spare him. The woman's words struck vaguely on him, but her fury went into the necromancer instead. Not to give this man too much credits, but he went down like a necromancer: a stubborn, undying fool.

The witch also ceased any form of resistance. It was her heart that crumbled rather than her body, and really, who could fault a person for this. A warrior fights for what she loved, and that she had failed. Alfrid had died, and, as the battle died down, the undead returning to their resting place among their ancestors, the fighters recovering, his last words got to Steffen more than any battle wounds he received from that fight. Victory was had, it was total for the Iron Roses, but he felt hollow,...unwhole.

Behind the glory, justice - true justice - was not yet served.

He knew that the knights and the crowns would not be happy letting her go free, just from her participation alone, but also her statement implying there is more to the story. She and the Nem sisters may not see true peace for a while, despite their unwilling participation.

"Sir Fleuri is right." Steffen readily stepped up to affirm Fleuri. "If there were to be arrests, I am willing to appeal for more lenience...for all three of them." Glancing over to the witch and the nem, his eyelids hang loose, his inner eyebrows raised. "And I suggest patience for now. We already killed her loved ones. Let's not kill her will too."

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Hidden 12 mos ago 12 mos ago Post by HereComesTheSnow
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Gerard Segremors

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His bones shook as the blow sunk home, the raw momentum brought about by the flight's velocity brought to an explosive stop at the moment of impact, threatening to jolt his joints to paste—

And then, the conspirator's chest gave beneath the weight of the blow, and momentum resumed.

As the spindly body of the now-thoroughly pulverized necromancer was sent flying, Gerard's long arc through the air finally terminated with him reuniting with terra firma. Cast into a spin by the rotational force of his swing, the knight tumbled end over end for a short distance, smashing old bones beneath his weight as the arcane framework keeping them aloft fizzled out.

A loud thud from behind, as he skidded to a halt on stone. He craned his swirling head—

Damn. I really launched him.

And as the Captain marched forward to deliver the coup de grace, the humble and weary greenhorn forced himself to sit up, one arm propped against the floor whilst the other, loosely holding Dawn's Break, rested upon an upturned knee. The debate regarding the grieving mage washed over his ears, heard but mostly unlistened to.

With the tension and rush of battlefield furor leaving him, every ache Gerard had condemned his muscles to seemed to come alight, and his only rejoinders to any conversation were slow, ragged panting. His vision was affixed upon the armored corpse opposite even as it swam, golden eyes pinned to the inscrutable shadows of the visor, searching.

...

... He was gone. In the wake of his returning soul was left only a statue.

Gerard pulled a slow breath in...

It was an honor, Sir.

And let it out, before his eyes flicked back to the trio in front of him. Not his place to arbitrate any of that, for a whole slew of reasons—

"Sir Fleuri."

—Yet all the same, he found his voice as he raised the blessed morningstar aloft. On his face, a crooked, tired smile.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I oughta hand this back before I get too attached."
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Lein



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'He'? 'Never meant to go this way?' The witch's scattered mumbling narrowed down a few things and broadened some others. It would mean, much to Lein's chagrin, that the decision to send out an assassin on her lonesome was very much intended; whether or not her success was warranted was yet unclear. Whoever was calling the shots was either that vampire, the man with the amulet or the necromancer. One had seemingly vanished in place of a demon, another's broken body now lay stone dead just a few strides across. And if Serenity was telling the truth, this Damon vampire had retreated after Serenity's duel with him. There was still a few loose threads left, and this witch was yet a font of these uncertainties.

One fact remained: this plot was dead. Whether the mastermind was crushed by the meteoric charge of Gerard or chased away by Serenity, the players had all packed and left. There would be nothing more to gain from wheedling more from anyone, and the conspiracy was out of Lein's reach and Lein's care. All that remained was simply to pick up what few hours remained in the evening and return home...well, whatever that meant. Outside of these infested walls, anything would be preferable. Lein silently looked down at the witch, prostrating on the floor and whispering her regrets, and let the tension in his bowstring go with a sigh.

The enemy that he knew and was about to pierce with his arrow was gone, replaced with this stranger cradling a memento. The Barukstaedian, this witch - their way of mourning was foreign to him. He didn't even know what the owner of this axe was called. But the cold daze that twisted the face of the witch was easy enough to see. Lein knelt down onto one knee and mustered something from his hazy memories of Reonite chants. "We accept the gracious gift of our departed strength and uphold the burden and glory of his life as our own. May his deliverance be gentle and the guidance of the lamps ever clear." It was a recount unfamiliar to both the witch and Hundi. Hopefully, it would be enough to make his presence by her side known. Grief was the loneliest feeling known by everyone, after all, and innocence had little say in it.

And well, he didn't know how aware the witch was, but he'll have to tie the strand now, just in case. "Have your moment of grief, and cherish what you know of him - but if ever a day comes when you want to hunt the one that condemned your partner to his death, seek the castle in Aimlenn and ask after Lein of the Roses. I'll be ready." And for now, the Hundi remained, kneeling in parity against the mourning, listening for the judgement to arrive.
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The fortress was not overcome. The past remained, unshakeable, unperturbed.

From the moment the necromancer's barrier shattered, nay, from the moment the numbers shifted further into the favor of the Iron Rose knights, the conclusion had been decided and the fate of the villain had been sealed. All that mattered then, was to seize that fragment of an opportunity to test one's self, sharpen one's self, against the monument of human might. And yet, worn down by the passing of millennia, bereft of half the capabilities that made him legend, Erich remained flawless.

A fortress that moved.

Serenity rose from the pile of inanimate bones, the undead warriors that had lost their movement once their master had been slain. Fragments of ancient steel slid off her chainmail as her ears roared still with the ferocity of an end that came too soon. Gerard, mace head covered in gore. Fanilly, blade slick with foul ichor. The necromancer slain, the child saved, the witch broken, and the champion lifeless once more. She drew in a breath, a breath befouled by her own blood, and reached to pick up the weapons she had dropped. Hatchet and mace, used so frequently, and yet used so pointlessly. The shield she had lent, warped without having truly served its purpose. Opportunities, squandered.

Stilled, the corpse of Erich Cazt was not so much taller than herself. She placed her hand upon his chest, felt the tension in her muscles, the urge to push. To test how immovable he was, even in his second death. Her flesh, pulsating beneath her gloves. Her eyes, smouldering like the embers of a forge.

Time had passed him, but humanity had not.

Serenity dropped her hand and marched past instead, boots crushing the corpses in her path until she could finally reached the necromancer's corpse. One hand grasped his hair, pulling his head off the ground. The other hand hooked beneath the shattered ribs, pulling it up and rolling the body over her shoulder. Light as a feather. Stank like the rotting dead. He deserved not to lie another second longer upon the Demonbreaker's tomb. And as for the witch...

It didn't matter whether she was a pawn or not. It didn't matter whether she had changed sides or not. It didn't matter whether she let go of her desire to revenge the axeman up above. It didn't matter, because so long as she breathed, she could change her mind. Sir Steffen and Sir Fleuri were forgiving, but would they still be forgiving if any of her lightning bolts had slain one of them? Would they be so forgiving if Sir Vier had been cleaved in two by the Baruksteadian's axe? Would Lein see her as ally instead of enemy if the extent of her sins grew just a little more? In the end, she was a witch. Inscribed with sorcerous tattoos that allowed her to call forth spells of great power without uttering a single word.

Leniency could be had after they bound her wrists and kept a dagger steady to her throat, after the mages of the College have peeled away whatever gave her the freedom of the storm itself. Leniency could be had after they knocked her unconsciousness. Serenity's hands were full, but she still had her feet. All it would take was one good kick, and the witch wasn't in a state to be aware of her surroundings anyways.

But she was a knight.

"We are shield and sword," Serenity spoke from behind the kneeling Hundi. "Not gavel and block. Rise up, Lein. The body's not here and the soul doesn't desire the prayers of a foreign church either." A pause. What smidgen of warmth laid beneath that chastisement faded away in full. "As for you, witch. We will see to it that the axeman's body will be embalmed for whatever funeral you desire for him, but your trial will come first. For the benefit of the law and yourself, be truthful and compliant, lest you waste the last words of your partner."

If she stayed any longer, she was going to act, so Serenity left it at that, walking away. Away from Erich, away from the witch, away from her fellow knights.

A trail of blood staining stone and bone, a worthless head swinging to and fro.
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The Nem was unbound.

It was clear she was unharmed, and though her voice shook as she spoke, her first words were asking about her sister.

Despite everything, it was clear the news that Tili was alive was at least some small comfort to her.

The Lightning Witch was bound. She offered no resistance, and eventually elaborated somewhat on what she'd said to Lein.

That it was Damon Cazt who had brought the necromancer and his lackey, and Alfrid and herself, together. Damon Cazt who found the 'assassin' at the Necromancer's request.

It had gone from simply finding some way to strike at the crown that they would remember, in the name of family lost during the War of the Red Flag, to an assassination plot to kill the eldest Princess.

It was never meant to go that way, and by the time it had begun to do so there was no escape.

The prisoner was taken from the tomb.

Surely, Veilena would be angered to know just how many of her ancestors had been raised, but perhaps the exemplary performance of Erich Cazt even in death would be one she could show some pride in. There was no denying he reclaimed himself at the end, after all.

Damon's presence was far less of a proud moment for the Cazt heir.

Clerics from the church would be sent to cleanse the mausoleum and put the dead properly to rest once more.

For now, at least, whatever threat the conspiracy posed was ended.

And yet...









All the knights in Candaeln had the same dream; they dreamed of battle.

A dusty plateau amidst a sea of clouds, rolling grey stretching out to the horizon. A perfectly flat disc without the slightest hint of mortal work or natural life, notable only in how the brown wasn't the surrounding grey. In this featureless world, the observer in the blue sky above was all the more noticeable: a slender woman, hair black and eyes a chilling, icy blue. Although her features held all the chiselled sharpness of classical Ithillane nobility, her garb was unerringly foreign, a colourful asymmetrical robe with a broad sash and drooping sleeves. Why was she watching? No question would get an answer, no attack would connect, passing through like a mirage.

Then the fighting would start. A common bandit, appearing and going straight for the kill. A lopsided skeleton. An ordinary footsoldier. With each defeat, the body would disappear like smoke, and the ground would return to its pristine condition. With every foe, the challenge would increase, and soon the landscape itself would reshape--sometimes to the dreamer's benefit, sometimes to the enemy's.

The knight inevitably lost. Maybe it was pitted against a mountain of an Ingvarr from Barukstaed, his already armour caked in dried blood. Maybe it was some wizard of the foulest arts, dragging them down into the numerous graves the dream now contained. Or maybe they got so far as a mighty wyvern, almost a true dragon if not for the lack of intelligence.

Death was inevitable, a transient searing pain. Yet it didn't end, in a blink the dreamer was once again at the starting point. The next foe would come. And the next. Each stronger than the last; mighty commanders of Talderia in gilded panoply, elaborate plumes and trimmings making them no less deadly. Ancient knights and mages of fame, from across the kingdoms, heroes of prior wars. The sky above turned from blue to orange, and they were pitted against their heroic predecessors.

Although no less deadly, these fights were different. Although each dreamer fought but one, these founding figures of the Iron Roses were still there when they came to their feet again. Congratulatory, or apologetic, as was their nature: Cyrus the Hammer, enthusiastic and boisterous; Lilette as gentle as her name suggested. Even Edwin the Traitor would be jocular, not a hint of darkness about him.

Two foes remained. Those that had descended into the mausoleum at first would recognise the shining armour, the billowing cape: Erich Cazt, without the shackles of a necromancer. Aged even in a dream, but no less diminished, holding back none of the skill or magic he had been famous for. Grandfatherly words of encouragement given as the knight awoke once more, the sky turning to black, and the sea of clouds barely visible at the horizon of the vast platform.

A dragon. Massive and preening, scales a red so deep as to be almost black, save for when they caught the light of the full moon perfectly, or the actinic illumination of its own flames. Only then would it have a coat of a million rubies, an unearthly beauty on a monster so huge. A foe that had taken a full ten heroes to fight and the power of a saint to bring down.

Volkstraad.

And then they woke, memories of the dream lingering long in the daylight.









It had been a week since the raid on the conspirators in the tomb.

Judgement had yet to be passed on the nem girl, Tili. Naturally, her sister wanted her to live. The First Princess, surprisingly to some, also didn't see the need for her to die.

And a delegation from the Velt Adventurer's guild, apparently notified by a mysterious man leaving a message notifying them of the situation, was to arrive soon in order to argue on her behalf.

But there was still no way of knowing what her fate would be, yet.

Fierense had vanished.

She had cooperated, and made no attempt to escape. The cell she was housed in was warded by the Court Mage himself. There shouldn't have been any way for her to escape, and she hadn't made any attempts to try. There was no damage to the cell. The wards themselves hadn't been displaced.

And yet there was no sign of the Lightning Witch.

It was fairly early in the morning when Fanilly awoke that day.

Her maids assisted her in bathing, and braided her hair before helping her get dressed. Her thoughts drifted as her morning routine continued, to the strangeness of the conspiracy and to the strange dream she had experienced the night before.

She didn't speak of it to her maids, and she was certain they noticed how quiet she was being, one hand placed to her chest(at least until they asked her to move it so they could continue bathing her).

A reason to keep moving forward...

She'd been wanting to do some research. Both to see if there was any sort of historical precedence for all of this(perhaps she could find some record of Damon Cazt?) and in order to see if she could find some information on the figures that appeared in that bizarre dream.

Naturally, this meant she'd at least be starting the day in the library.

It wasn't a bad day outside. Quite the opposite, in fact. The sun was shining, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Some of the local birds could be heard rather vocally in the gardens, serenading their fellows or staking claims on territory.

But Fanilly had plenty to do.

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Tyaethe


Alone of the knights, Tyaethe seemed unbothered by curious dreams, although whether that was because of some quirk of biology or protection, or simply that she didn't do much more than doze half-awake during the daytime, was hard to say. Still, the vampire seemed irritated by something, if the frown as she sat in her usual spot was anything to go by.

Her involvement in the clean-up for the conspiracy had been minimal, although she had offered her services to assist in interring Erich's body once again and consecrating the tomb.

This whole affair didn't sit right. An assassination attempt arranged for no apparent reason, using an adventurer with some truly exceptional stealth skills... but no backup, and set to lead the Iron Roses right to the source? An attempt orchestrated and arranged by the same one that got away, seemingly having set the entire thing up to fail from the start. The question, of course, was why? Was he the one that freed Fierense? What about the defence being mounted by the Adventurers Guild?

There were too many unknowns here.

At least nobody had spoken about the existence of the bunny, yet. That was one thing to look forward to. And wasn't Lilette's girl supposed to be coming around soon? That might be interesting; they hadn't much time to talk about how much training she had.
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Fionn MacKerracher


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Fortunately, none of their fellows had been badly wounded or worse in the fighting down in the mausoleum once Fionn, Renar, and Nicomede had made it to the scene; unfortunately—at least in the first's mind—they arrived too late to join in on anything more than clean-up and helping get the others back to Candaeln, such as were willing to immediately make their way back to the keep. His night's rest was well-earned after that, other than joining in on escorting the princesses back to their proper residence. His finery was set to wash away the grime accumulated after putting armour overtop, his blades polished back to their proper state, and for much of the week, life went on as normal.

Wake before the sun, eat an early breakfast. Out into the yard to exercise and train. Much of it now on Fionn's end was building a cider mill and press, after locating both the materials needed and getting good information about the upcoming apple harvest. Manual labour of this sort had proven very important in his own early development, understanding his body, developing a good sense of physical fitness—and it would do the same for some of his less physically-inclined fellows, he'd decided. Not everybody needed to swing a sword or an axe, but maintaining a healthy body was important for sorcerers and warriors alike. Making the mill man-powered rather than animal-powered would only aid with that!

When he wasn't doing that or joining in on the usual sparring matches with his various partners, he was spending more and more time in the library, seeking out what books he could to try and make use of his newly discovered talent, though with no idea where to start or what tomes to look for, he had little tangible success. It was not long into the week, however, that he noticed one of their number to be absent for longer than was ever the norm. He thought he'd seen the Hundi lad's reddish main bobbing through the halls at one point, but as soon as he rounded the corner to get a closer look, there was no sign.

As the days neared a week past, his curiosity—and general concern for one of his fellow knights—started to get the better of him. "Tomorrow," he muttered to himself one day, making up his mind at last to go and hunt down the wayward knight. For all that some of the habits he'd begun to notice in Lein were keen to rub him the wrong way, after the casualties the Iron Roses had suffered in recent memory any disappearance of one of their number would be a grievous loss to bear. Beyond that, if it weren't for some of those habits he had little to dislike from the lad, and his conscience couldn't let him just sit and wait in the hope that Lein might return for both reasons.

As was his way, he arose the next morning before the sun—a bit earlier than usual, even, with a strangled curse that quickly turned to laughter as he started bolt upright in his bed. His arms relaxed, finding no spray of blood or entrails, no gaping open wound where the tip of a giant claw had torn open the skin across his navel like it was wet paper. Not like that was one he could even be annoyed with, anyways—one of him, alone, facing up against a dragon that large?

That knight of the Wild Hunt who'd managed to plant a dagger in his throat, though, that one rankled a bit. Shaking his head—and rubbing at the side of his neck despite the knowledge that there wouldn't even be a mark there—he turned over, standing out of bed and pulling on his clothes. The rest of Candaeln was fairly quiet and empty at this time of day, save for a few knights who seemed worse for wear as they stumbled blearily about towards the dining hall for whatever breakfast might be found.

Such an epidemic of poor sleep was a rare occurrence, though Fionn didn't think much about it. It happened from time to time, after all, especially for men and women in their profession. A few minutes later, with a tankard of ale and some bread and cheese down in his system, Fionn set out from the keep just as the sun was beginnging to peek over the horizon. Ostensibly, out for a morning jog—not entirely uncommon for him, though the perceptive might note that today was not the day he'd usually do so—though once he reached the city proper, he veered off from his typical course, heading back to the cemetery he'd been in a week before.

Without any better options, he may as well trace the Hundi knight's steps backwards, rather than asking after him in every tavern in Aimlenn. The cemetery's groundskeeper proved less than helpful when questioned, unfortunately, though his attempts to outright turn Fionn away planted some seeds of suspicion in his mind; the protests were a little too vehement to appear as though he was just trying to avoid another mess in his workplace.

Some coins later and Fionn earned himself free access, looking through the gravestones and mausoleum entrances for some sign of his quarry.

Or, better yet, the quarry himself, ragged, dirty, sleeping with head nestled between some tree roots and feet lying over the grave of some dwarf woman. For a moment, Fionn considered not even trying to wake him, but one glance at Lein's face showed that he wasn't even experiencing any peace in his sleep. So he sat down, pulling out a small pie he'd bought once he'd reached the city, and with the other hand, he shook the sleeping knight fairly vigorously to stir him to wakefulness.

"Hey, you know we've got beds at Candaeln, right?" Rather than let go after shaking Lein, though, he held on to the man's tunic with a firm grip. Whatever was going on, he figured it might be best not to give the lad an easy escape opportunity if, for some inexplicable reason, he decided to try and run off. "Got some breakfast for you."
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Lein knew the whole job was a fake from the start. This cabin was just a couple twists outside of Aimlenn, this shipment of wheat was from a 'newcomer smuggler' and certainly did not need a specialized guard that took an entire bag of gold coins. Still, if there was someone that needed to meet Lein so badly, he'd have to oblige. The cover was obvious enough that it was a self-filtering process directed at anyone who would find it suspect and still take it up anyway. But he did not know how swiftly the mysterious benefactor would reveal himself.

The deep gravel filled voice grumbled at Lein, just past the treeline across from where Lein had stationed himself.. "Master Lenivicus."

The mention of the name instantly brought a scowl to Lein's face. Worse still, Lein didn't even need to see the towering silhouette to know who had invoked the title. Brilliant yellow eyes under a mismatched set of broken horns leaned over him, torchlight fleeing behind him as the giant approached. Each step measured and purposeful, the dim light and the plain dark garb did little to hide the gravitas that his sheer physique imposed. His face was chiseled silent, with a stillness that could convince anyone that the Ingvarr was a statue. No, this Ingvarr did not need distinction befitting his title as the Estouls retainer. All those who knew him knew to fear him regardless. Lein did not grace him with anything other than standing his ground, with a snarl devoid of anything other than scorn. "Half-horn."

The 'Half-horn's' grim stoicism did not react to the moniker. "I see the years have not whittled your tongue. Yet it has been unkind to the rest of you."

Lein tried not to move, but as if own its own his prosthetic arm slinked out of the Ingvarr's sight. "I wear my losses with pride, Hadrianus. Something that you should know better than most."

"To accept them is honor. To seek them is folly. A distinction lost on many."

"Get to the point. Your mug's put me in a foul mood and I'm not here to shuffle words. Take your shot or get in line." Lein braced himself, already seeking places to hide, places to strike. But the great retainer did not move.

"A mere greetings, little more, Master Lenivicus. I was passing through and simply wished to see how - "

"Great. Here I am. You've seen me. Casse-toi."

"I am grievously disheartened with your aloofness, Master, but it is far better that you waste your venom on this lowly servant than on your father." Hadrianus stepped across the treeline to turn his gaze up at the stars in the night sky. Distant. Indifferent. "The scenery is quite beautiful. I think I should venture a little longer in these delightful hills, and try out the Thalnese ale that I hear so much of. Perhaps next moon, we shall meet again. Master Lenivicus, if you shall excuse my restlessness, I shall take my dismissal."

Lein snarled as Hadrianus retreated back into the night, though the proceeding silence made the Hundi meek. His head pounded, his heart pounding in its afterthought of terror. The joint plate of his prosthetic gripped its teeth against his shoulder, old scars flaring up like a twisted love call to the sinking pit in his stomach. Yeah, he knew this was coming some day. He even asked after his contacts to try and make his amends in preparation. But to stand up against this...

Inevitability.

The word formed itself before any other. An advance warning, as a meager courtesy. The wayward Hundi knew it would not be enough.
---

I see you.

What is it that you want? Pride? Pain? Determination?

Do you wish me to triumph, perform all my tricks and counters, dissect my movements under the duress of this aimless torment? Do you wish to trample my bones and gouge yourself fat from the struggle of this mortal before you?

In my early stupor I obeyed my senses and danced for you. I strummed by bowstrings and pummeled, until at last a specter of a familiar face claimed my life.

Yet unsatiated, my shattered body did not suit your appetite. You chained the unwilling to the undying. And you set the game free once more, to see me kill for nought.

No.

I see your game. Your dominion will be futile. Your passivity will be your weakness.

Go ahead. Throw your legends and tormentors and the biggest names that your memory can afford you. No amount of sword or rapier or fire or poison shall make me dance to your tune. You will see nothing, receive nothing.

I play to win. And I will not play.


---

The Hundi did not understand the words that churned in his head for a while after he awoke. Primarily as he had awoken with his body being vigorously shaken loose from the grips of his nightmare. This new night terror had far less bite than his usual ones, but instead of filling him with an unfathomable melancholy, his nerves were still on fire with a spitefulness that was quickly losing sight of its prey.

It took a long few seconds for Lein to register who had aroused him. Fionn, in an apparent concern, somehow found Lein in the graveyard. That useless old grounds-keep must have neglected his job. Lein tried to muster the strength to throw a witty line or two, but he could only yield a tired and confused stare. Slowly, he sat up, dirt and dust cascading down from his hair and tail. Deep aches echoed in his joints as the week's worth of pains sought to reclaim Lein's attention. Lein did not let them. Instead, he looked over to Fionn. It wasn't great that someone from the Knights had found him here. And in the one site that he preferred not to allow. Still - out of all the possible discoverers Fionn was probably the least threatening. It would mean much worse if someone had tipped him off, somehow.

Not like it would matter soon enough.

"Heh." Lein curled his mouth mirthlessly. "Fancy seeing you here. Someone sent you? Sorry to disappoint, but..." Lein struggled to focus his thoughts, drowsiness uncharacteristically retaining its hold. It was only a couple skipped nights, was it that bad? "Thanks for the...greeting, but I'll make my way back." Lein staggered upright, hand flailing behind him before managing to catch the trunk as a support, and held up his tunic in Fionn's fist in an inquisitive look. Well, as inquisitive as a haggard face could ever be.
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Fionn MacKerracher


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In the face of Lein's attempt to brush him off, Fionn held firm. As he'd expected, Lein wasn't exactly inclined to sit and eat. "This is unusual even for you, lad," he said in response to Lein's tired, curious look. "You normally have the sense to show up during the week, rather than leave the rest of us wondering." Let alone having one of us find you in this sorry state.

He tugged hard against the Hundi's tunic; not enough to drag him down to the ground, but enough to make his intentions clear. "Sit. Eat. I've got a knife you can use to crack the crust and pick out what's inside, unless you feel like breaking your teeth on a peasant's pie. We can get you to the baths after that."
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Lein staggered at Fionn's tug, nearly tumbling down the slant of the graveyard. A flash of temptation to vent his irritation flared, but Lein knew better to express it even as the fatigue dug its nails deeper under his eyes. Lein slid down the tree roots and rested his head against a knot in the trunk. He was oddly compliant, energy already leeched by the still entangled memories of his dream. It was clear that Fionn meant well, if that was anything. Best not be too petulant about it. Besides, it was clear that this, what was it now, Ball Knight? He was not going to leave. "Had a couple visitors. Entertained them for a bit. It's tiring being so popular, see." This time, his smile had a bit more effort into it as the duplicity of the bluff made itself clear to Lein.

He was careful to drift his eyes away from the tombstones as he ripped off a chunk off - and predictably nearly choked on the exact thing Fionn warned him about. But a week's worth of repressed hunger realized itself as soon as Lein tasted something resembling food. Without even a moment to compose himself after spitting out the inedible bits, he swallowed and went for another before remembering to check himself. "Isn't it early for you, too?" Lein croaked quickly, as if to distract Fionn from the embarrassing display.
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His grip relaxed, but didn't release, as Lein sank back down. "Must have been quite the visi—" He was quickly cut off by Lein biting directly into the standing crust, warning unheeded. With his free hand, he silently held over his utility knife, so that Lein might have something other than his fingers and tongue to pick the meat out of its shell. "Have you never broken a tooth? Your canines are delicate. Be more careful."

At least it confirmed another suspicion that Lein had barely eaten over the week.

"Not nearly as early as me for some others. Finish your breakfast; we'll head back to Candaeln once we're done so that you can get a bath and some proper sleep." Thus far, he was glad that Lein was just following along with what he said, even if he didn't expect it to last; still, he was going to make it clear with every sentence that there wasn't any room to argue with his pronouncements. "And that way we can keep you from having to entertain visitors that leave you in such a state."
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"You think these are just for show, Fionn?" Lein smiled, revealing the oversized canines of the Hundi. "Cracked out sea biscuits is tougher than this." His bragging was soon accompanied by Lein hounding down the rest of the pie with a ravenous greed, rocks and all. No digging around with some knife or such.

"This is a pretty solid pie. Maybe should open a bakery with that cider business of yours." With something in his stomach, Lein could feel some of his mind returning. But however nice of a rest this was, but Lein was on a tight schedule. He still had to visit the smith for some modifications to his prosthetics, referring his contacts to each other in case... And he still needed to get to the bottom of the witch's disappearance. Already falling behind. Lein just needed to be a bit smart about this, however hard his head pounded just thinking about it.

"But really - gonna leash me this whole time?" Lein held up the sleeve Fionn retained custody over. "How un-knightly of you."
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"Guess we all fall back on what we know."

The knife was returned to its sheathe, the distinctly un-knightly response hanging in the air between them. It was just as nonsensical as Lein's own comment had been; idealistic as he was, Fionn's views of his position weren't born out of the utterly unrealistic expectations set by cheap romance novels marketed to young women of every class in society. True knights could just as often be firm and forceful as they were kind and gentle, given good enough reason.

Lein's general penchant for going missing at random times, combined with the recent absence and the state he was in once found gave Fionn more than enough concern to qualify for 'good reason.' More than enough reason to act serious for once himself, as well.

With a grunt he stood up, slipping his tunic-clenching fist under Lein's arm to pull him up as well. "Come on, then. You can tell me what you've been up to on the way back to the keep, and if you behave I might even help you get your dress back while saving face."
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...

Within the gilded reflection of the mugful of cider, the coal-haired knight's face was furrowed in a manner many ascribed to tireless, inescapable contemplation. While Segremors often seemed to find his mind wandering in times of idleness at and around the grounds of Candaeln, it rarely came so strongly after the hours of physical training he and certain others routinely pushed themselves through. More often he would have lapsed into a tired, but content and comfortable state not unlike fugue.

Or, at least he wouldn't be staring a hole through the bottom of his drink. Snorting, he took a swig of the glorified apple juice (still not quite in season, even when sourced by the Candaeln sommeliers) and let the sweet flavor act as a wash over him, to refresh and renew and relax. Still a little alcohol in there, after all.

Quietly, he believed Fionn's mill would source a better flavor. Payday always came the sweetest when you really worked for it— and naturally, Gerard was the first of the knights that Fionn had wrangled into utilizing and fostering the many eccentric strengths of hard labor. It wasn't a terrible time— after so much life on the road and behind a sword, he'd come to miss simple farmstead work in that vein more than he'd realized. How long had it been since he'd gotten to make something?

It had gotten his mind off the past few nights for a good spell, too. Worth the ache.
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