Time: 2nd Ignis, Evening
Location: Tough Tavern
Attire: Fine DressBoar Mantle of Spring Hunting - head’s at home, the bulky thing
A Dirk - strapped in, strapped down
Swordbreaker - strapped in, strapped down
Interactions: Ariella
@Tpartywithzombi, Olivia
@Potter, Roman
@ReusableSwordMentions: Charlotte
@princess, Drake [@LavaAlckon], Kalliope
@Tae, Sjan-Dehk
@Apex SunburnBefore you hear it for the first time, you might think a bar going across a door sounds simply like a sturdy tankard hitting a thick wooden table. In truth, that sound was followed by a sound like that of the tankard rolling across such a table. For the big ones worth their salt, anyway. If it was light enough to simply lower, it was light enough to simply break.
There wasn't much sound for the tankard landing in her lap, a soft
pap, inaudible over the ruckus of the tavern. Before Stratya could try to assuage the shoeless lady’s concern, in the way of the happy drunk Ariella moved on. The dropped vessel found the tabletop once more, and Ariella’s bliss painted what precious peaceful moments remained.
The Captain turned to Roman, about to say something she’d never remember what it was, when the great slam of the door, followed by a great shuddering, interrupted her.
She turned to see, as would others. A boulder on legs, and Drake, and Charlotte. The two familiar of the three were quick to return as things unfolded. The third, Ox?, stood at the door with an intimidating bulk. You'd want to hit a guy like that in the face. There was too much muscle and fat in the rest of his body, he'd just absorb any strikes. You could stab him or cut him, sure, but there had been no blood. The grinding noise, Stratya saw, had been the bar for the door, and now Ox blocked it with a heavy keg.
It was good she didn't bring her family dirk. She thought something like this might happen, actually. Well, she thought it would have been quieter, more of a pickpocketing than a full-blown heist.
The dynamic between Ox and his commander's voice set up the dread Stratya felt grow as two more accomplices appeared from the loft overhead. Four? There was “Ox”, his commander who had told him to hold the door, two crossbows
bang and a fifth.
Stratya laid her hands upon the table, but not before she tried to get a look at the gun that had been fired. Did it hold more than one shot at the ready? Could she tell from here? And why did he have to be some lunatic with a razor hung from his neck?
A sixth, a dagger, captured the barmaid to hold her hostage. This was a big group. Coordinated. Troublesome. One after another, they emerged like roaches that had been living in the woodwork. A flash of light from the hearth announced the seventh, washing out the entirety of the room and filling the air with an ethereal weight, as though suddenly things were very humid, but it wasn’t water.
A witch.
That certainly complicated things. The windows blackened, the sound of the room insulated. Despite the adrenaline now coursing through her, Stratya kept herself still, calm. Underneath, her dread grew. The larger the group, the more prone to violence they become. More likely it was there was at least one loose cannon among them.
Shrieking confirmed this fear. She was reminded of her threat to Donald, to have him locked up within eyesight of the torture chamber. Her eyes closed as she listened, breathing and desperately maintaining her calm under a grimace. Maybe she'd just put him in a normal jail cell, instead. Gods, if Donald were camped outside and watching her through the window on this occasion, that would be
absolutely keen, actually. He could call the guard. Would he know to call for a witchhunter? Probably not, huh.
A deep breath forced her chest to steady as the man’s mutilation ended and her eyes opened slowly, but only a new horror awaited her. A man tried to flee, only to be met with unseen force that broke and discarded him, flinging him across the room. He didn’t move again. He was either unconscious from pain and shock or very thoroughly dead. Stratya’s expression darkened further, and then she heard some damnable old windbags open their loose lips! Glaring at them would gain her nothing, however.
“If someone’s going to paint the floor for being stupid, it’s me, not you.”The comment granted the old men Stratya's forgetfulness. This young noble lady had nerves, as though the glares she’d been sending Kalliope were not enough evidence of that. Not just brass, but tact in a pinch. Where did she get these qualities? Olivia also identified a mage without missing a beat, but the captain could worry about that later. In the moment, Lady Olivia showed herself an ally, and not a stupid one.
“‘at’s someone else’s job, nae yerrs.” It was good to know she was not alone, but the knight had doubts about the lady's ability in combat. She expected Lady Olivia might lack experience and training, if not the aptitude.
An
eighth accomplice approached them, specifically Ariella, picking her out for Drake's sister. She didn't like the way he looked at her. With any luck, the only thing running through his head was ransom. Charlotte and Drake were managing Lady Edwards, but who knew how her outbursts would play off the bandits apprehending them. She was quite the handful of a happy drunk.
It did seem to Captain Durmand that none of the bandits seemed to have noticed
her, not even Garran. Not specifically. Just another pretty face, to them. Good. She would need every advantage.
They were to drink. A decent plan to reduce the resistance in the room with what everyone came here for anyway. Everyone would leave drunk, nothing would look too suspicious and no attention would get drawn until the perpetrators were long gone.
Kalliope’s daring proposal gave Stratya another wave of brave relief. This ally inspired more confidence, her ability was more known, less hidden. Lady Olivia had drawn curiosity from the knight, regarding her capabilities. For that matter, would Roman sit idly by? Was Drake confident in a fight? Had he and Ariella been sparring with the boffles she had gotten for them? Getting him a knife was a dangerous prospect at the moment, such would have to be done unseen or in the moment of action. Lady Charlotte, though a shaken contrast to Lady Olivia, had not been reduced to a fearful mess. A skill she would need as a Duchess.
Herself, she was pleased with her decision to meditate on the setting sun. Such meditations often made it difficult to get to sleep in a timely fashion, but with it being Drunkard's Day, she'd planned to stay up late drinking. The wakefulness and (she was finding out) sobriety it brought on was going to prove useful.
Three, four, maybe five combatants, to their seven plus a witch? Her eyes gazed into the strange light of the magicked flame as she thought about how to proceed, if she should even speak any further. Their captors’ ears were sharp. Quiet rooms did that. Her best bet at that moment was to gather information as subtly as she could, and the biggest mystery was the magic of the witch holding the room hostage. The witch had claimed insulation from the surrounding world, and that was plain to see. The windows were black, as though some empty void were beyond. She could no longer hear the ruckus of Drunkard’s Day from outside. The way the witch could squeeze their throats at will, and fold a man in the air before tossing him aside with a flick of her wrist.. how, exactly, was she doing so many things?
The knight took her half-drank vessel of mead and drank more, taking the opportunity to eyeball the position of the man in the rafters and the man on the stairs while feeling the heft of the pint in her hand. Heavy enough. It thunked back to the wood and her hand returned to position. They’d have to do something about the witch before anything else.
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