TiI'm here also.
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@VitaVitaAR
Is the messenger something our characters could notice or something of a set-up for your next post?
Is the messenger something our characters could notice or something of a set-up for your next post?
That raises a point: do any of you draft and then rewrite your posts or is it all off the cuff?
Interested.
Sir Jerel Ban
"ENAN UO ILSIR!"
With the battle-cry, Jerel sank down into the Stillness; he was a river-stone in his mind, sinking, sinking, down and down away from the surface of his thoughts. He was shielded. Calm. Doubts flickered like minnows, silver and far-away. Unmoved by the current of his emotions, he sat at the bottom, amongst silt and quiet, weighed down by duty.
So began the slaughter: in perfect apathy.
Removed from the battle in part, the rhythm, the beat of feet upon the earth, sword upon shield, flesh upon steel. The cries: the discordant melodies of pain, war cries for glory, for justice, all wove into the song above that beat, that drumming. The knights were a symphony, harmonious, with voices rising above: Tyaethe sang a solo of destruction, a dervish of notes and rent limbs. The bandits were a counterpoint, contrasting chords that exaggerated those of the Rose. This was what battle was, when viewed through an uncaring lens; not a dance (Jerel agreed with Sir Gerard there) but a song (here they might not agree). A song of death, played with weapons and wills. Jerel knew the tune well; he plucked along.
His arrows flew into the flanks or where a target was clear. Anywhere else was too risky, too much chance for the wandering tune to shift an ally into his sights instead of a foe.
Ter harried crossbowmen from their perches or distant positions, and whilst they batted at that flutter of iridescent feathers and jet talons, Jerel would pick them off, injure or kill them, or a mage would send a bolt of suffering at the unfortunate.
The twinge of pain deepened as Jerel went on, dimly aware of his suffering; his aim was less steady, his bow took more time to rise and be taut, and he had to abandon too many shots in frustration. Even then, he was missing more than he struck true.
It was the crack of fire and moaning timber that snapped Jerel from the trance.
His shoulder flared, the wound torn fresh and staining its linen bandage bright red. The smell was a wall. Shit and piss, the sour sweat that poured from the dying and death-dealing, the blood that bloomed in arterial roses, churned into slurry beneath pressing feet. The groans, not music now, but agonised. Sobs, cries, desperate pleas aimed at the heavens cut short, the voices of those who had a choice, and chose wrong. Suddenly, it was obvious that this was just like the ambush. They fell like wheat before farmers’s sickles, easy and fast, the seeds of their misdeeds finally reaped. Jerel pitied them and gave prayers in both his old and adorned religion.
Smoke. Billowing pillars, quickly swamping the other smells as the blaze towered. Sir Gerard and Renar were moving away, following Paladin Tyaethe, Jerel realised, which likely meant one thing, a threat worthy of attention: the Bandit King.
He moved about the edges of the fight, a slower route, but his arm was injured and his arrows ran low; he would be no help penning the bandits in. He saw Elodie move through the camp, and Gerard hand a spear to a tent. The prisoners!
Loose bandits, fleeing or frenzied, were there too. Jerel tried to lift his bow, to shoot them, but his arm complained and the strength drained. He cried out, but was too far. Sir Renar dealt with them.
Jerel came to the tent when the flank leaders had already passed through the flames. There was an urge to rush after them, but it was foolish, born of ambition and curiosity; he wished to see the Bandit King, and help slay him. He was responsible for all the blood, for the corruption of men that might have been good, had their hardships not caused them to doubt and stray. Perhaps if his arm stayed for long enough, he could line up a shot; he still had some charges of his bow left and...
No. He would help the prisoners; their lives were paramount.
The girl screamed and almost skewered him when he rounded the tent. Half-expecting this reaction, he rolled backwards, narrowly avoiding the tip.
“Easy,” He said, weapons dropped, palms open, “I’m an Iron Rose Knight, I’ll keep you safe.”
And that he did; he slew two bandits who ran from the clotted mass of bodies, swords meeting in brief combat. But they were not soldiers, not even fighters. Just men. And they died, one silent, the other screaming, just men.
Gillian dispatched three bandits easily a ways off in the camp and escorted the prisoners to safety. Jerel contemplated following suit, but thunder shook his eardrums and sent tremors through his feet. It came from behind the dying wall of fire. He could see the forms now, all focussing on one that towered tall, even whilst slouched. Not much longer then. This was finally drawing to a close.
It came with Fanilly announcing the death of the bandit’s leader, their ‘King’. Long live the king. Jerel grimaced.
He slumped next to the tent, a hand clamped to his shoulder as red seeped through his fingers. The shuddering impacts and ignored pain must have mashed it into a worse shape than when he first got it. It didn’t feel deep, but wounds were deceptive.
The field of hollow eyes, of frowns and ragged, clouding breath. They had won. They could have done better, but that was for later. They had put an end to a murderous spree, and saved those they could. That was enough for now.
I'm still intending to post, just been very busy and fallen behind, so I'll try post soon but don't mind missing out.
Tamlorn Winter-Rose
The weight of words pressed against his mind and trickled into comprehension. Slowly, a frown bloomed across his face, and he chewed the corner of his mouth in mute consternation.
“Moreover,” adding to Jehenne’s points, “would this Katherine not have herself placed in a position of power and trust if she could influence our sovereign so? And would a move against her not also threaten to divide this realm further?” He shook his head, as if trying to shake loose the clotting disbelief.
A weighing eye measured the Fragarach brothers; Libero gave away a lot during his pledge. Unlike Jehenne. She was a guarded secret.
“Inquisitor, whilst I hold my country and name as utmost, at present it is you and yours who seem the danger to both,” he breathed in, and then, out, “I hope whatever evidence you have is substantial.”
Feasting Hall | Shula Castle
Interacting with: N/A
“And that is why you should never trust a woman’s word on whether she is married or not; it is much better to ask her husband.”
That got a chuckle. Eon finished his story and lounged into an easy smile, well-worn, skin-deep. A small crowd hugged close to him; their banal smatterings added to din that flared about them, their eyes searched hungrily for any scrap of approval. Even here he could not escape that oily ambition that shrouded men’s hearts and twisted deep beneath them like gnarled roots. Contempt hid itself behind the goblet he drained for too long. The drink touched his lips, or even swelled into his mouth, between his teeth, across his tongue, but he never swallowed a drop. When he lowered it, once more the smile hung over his face.
Sweat, smoke and sin wove into smells of food to create a thick carpet of odour. The decision to sit with those beneath his station was borne of vain attempt to escape the political games and careful discussion. At least amongst the rabble there was some slight freedom, and they were entertaining in their ignorance. Of course, not all were witless peons.
Another conversation began to brew, and Eon made to look as though he was interested. The man immediately to Eon’s left stepped up in the lull. There then came a thought from outside his mind. A slight, gentle thing, that flowed smoothly into his mind, a feather floating along the swell of the sea, heedless of depths beneath.
Must we linger? All here are crass and the beasts are no better; they foul the air. I will surely catch a disease. The thought that was not his own sounded young inside his mind, feminine and clear as a crystal chime, tempered by a sense of maturity that exceeded the youth. Ira.
Without letting any of this touch his facade, Eon split his mind in two, focussing one half on the people, and one on his companion.
Of course. The blue-bloods shield their words. Here, people will give what they can, if they think I am important. And they do. It is prudent to feel out the tensions in this hall. It makes travelling easier if we know where treachery lies, and where foul weather broods, and where war shall soon carve into the peace.
His mind was still, a mirror-pond. Outside, he laughed with the crowd, and made a facetious remark that brought more titters.
And if we get to know which fighters are favoured, we stand to gain more from our gambled coin, if our paintings do not sell so well.
I know. The voice conceded. Her form shifted by his leg. He did not look down.
Not to mention I like the attention.
You are always too fond of it. Rue tinged the thought, like the wilt of a flower, as Ira’s mind retracted across the border, resting just outside Eon’s consciousness, rain on the other side of glass.
With his whole mind returning to his audience, Eon could tell they were beginning to tire of the sweaty man who led them now, so he snatched their attention with both hands and had them wrapped around his little finger before he had even begun his next sentence.
As if in answer Ter alighted, coming to a stop on a low branch before the knights. His plumage of underwater sapphire seemed to take on the earthy browns and greens and drank in the shadow that surrounded them. Intelligent eyes stared out.
“It may be possible,” Jerel mused, his head tilted at the bird. Ter imitated him. Alacrity bubbled from the surface state of Ter’s emotions, relayed through the colour so the Jerel could feel it like the heat from boiling water upon a fire. A smile rippled across his face, starting in his eyes before it stretched his face into a close-lipped crescent.
“What say you then, Ter?” Jerel asked, measuring his words. Affirmation. Forbearance. Emotions splashed between minds. Jerel nodded, “Then go, watch for a signal, and let us know. Crack the night with your cry.”
With the beat of powerful wings, Ter was gone.
Jerel turned back to Sir Segremors, “We should not forsake our own faculties, of course. But let us hope your idea is fruitful.”
@HereComesTheSnow@Psyker Landshark
“It may be possible,” Jerel mused, his head tilted at the bird. Ter imitated him. Alacrity bubbled from the surface state of Ter’s emotions, relayed through the colour so the Jerel could feel it like the heat from boiling water upon a fire. A smile rippled across his face, starting in his eyes before it stretched his face into a close-lipped crescent.
“What say you then, Ter?” Jerel asked, measuring his words. Affirmation. Forbearance. Emotions splashed between minds. Jerel nodded, “Then go, watch for a signal, and let us know. Crack the night with your cry.”
With the beat of powerful wings, Ter was gone.
Jerel turned back to Sir Segremors, “We should not forsake our own faculties, of course. But let us hope your idea is fruitful.”
@HereComesTheSnow@Psyker Landshark
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