yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

had readied himself perhaps for a leaping strike, a thunderous descent followed perhaps by a shockwave or even some hellish release of grasping, tearing shadows, but instead…Arrayah simply remained where she was.

Unsure if she would remain, but having a sense he might need some range, Farren took to one knee as he noted Torquil doing much the same. He murmured to the Messengers and they soon came. He handed off one of his blunderbusses–the one he’d been wearing at his back and retrieved the Piercing Rifle, swiftly loading it with a quicksilver bullet as he kept his eyes on Arrayah.

Then, just as he was going to put the rifle in the sling at his back, it happened: Arrayah moved. He watched as she drew the spear across her own flesh before thrusting it into the spire she was clinging to. Yet, there was no sound of blade upon stone, no grating noise, no spark of contact, no resistance or recoil in her body--though he could barely see her silhouette. For a moment, Farren thought he was simply missing something, and he was, but he could not have been more wrong about what it may have been.

A harsh cry of pain that cut off into the terrible noise of pooling blood, breathless, wet gurgling, and pained groans hit his ears and Farren’s azure eyes shifted in their direction. His eyes widened and he felt his gorge rise before it stuck and became less a reaction of disgust and more one of horrific realization. That bile which had risen in his throat, burning, became a rough knot of tension.

“Fuck,” the word came out rough and especially crude. Farren swiftly switched tact, holstering the Beastflayer at his back as he kept the Piercing rifle in hand. He didn’t take sights and fire though, there would be no point, he’d have to wait for an opportunity, but in this case…waiting did not mean standing still. “Move!” he yelled out to the others as he darted forwards, not in a quickstep, but in a continuous mid-speed run almost towards the spire at a slight leftwards diagonal. As he moved, his faintly luminescent eyes locked on Arrayah, searching for any sign of movement.

The moment he saw her moving--perhaps drawing the blade across her body, he wasn't certain due to the murk--before she began to thrust, he’d aim and fire, hoping that perhaps a well placed shot in that one large glowing eye might serve to interrupt her similar to how the blunderbusses had when she’d charged.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

cursed under his breath at the lack of results from his attack. He observed the Moonborn’s visceral strike, and the faint sawing noise that seemed to be coming from somewhere beneath Arrayah–surely that was Gerlinde. Then the damned creature began to recover, withdrawing its arm. Farren cursed again and jumped back, not in a dash, but just for a bit more distance as he whipped his weapon, lashing the beast even as it suddenly began to retreat towards the far off center of the massive room.

Then the voices, the whispers. Farren glanced about and it seemed he wasn’t the only one hearing them. Still…it unsettled him, it felt…wrong…too similar to a violation. An involuntary shudder went through him and he narrowed his eyes, wetting his lips as he saw Arrayah massive almost centipedal body spiralling up the pillar. “That bodes well,” remarked the Azure-eyed hunter with a displeased annoyance…and then the Profane Blade began to change, shadows congregating, as if drawn toward its form.

“Scourge…” Farren muttered, something of a swear as well, but this time intelligible. He glanced at Ophelia then back to Arrayah. Well…if they failed, they could come back better prepared, but Arrayah did seem to learn somewhat from their encounters, she wasn’t wholly mindless…and seemed even less so now if the strange speech was anything to go by.

Farren snapped the Beastflayer back into its base state and shifted almost nervously, unsure if she would leap from a great height and plummet down at them…or if she would remain perched, forcing them to find a way to topple her from the structure. Neither was pleasant, but he’d much prefer the former to the latter. Farren, keeping his eyes on Arrayah, took a handful of moments to reload his spent blunderbusses with quicksilver bullets before replacing them in their respective locations on his body.

He glanced one last time to Ophelia, then gripped the Beastflayer more firmly and steeled himself for whatever fresh hell Arrayah was intent to send their way next.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

No traps, barely anything of note at all, not even an unexpected threat. Simultaneously good, slightly satisfying, and yet disappointing. It was the result of being primed for action and then finding that one’s vigilance was not rewarded. Still, he was grateful and though he did not let himself relax as of yet, Lhirin did allow himself to focus more singularly for a moment. His eyes trailed first over the armor, then once he could he carefully shifted it, and when nothing else occurred he fully moved it aside and there it was: evidence of interest.

Lhirin’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. He unfolded one of the shocks of red cloth…. ‘The Crusader’s Guild,’ he thought darkly, briefly gritting his teeth before he balled the cloth back up in his free hand and then rose. Lhirin didn’t care about the cuirass, it was of middling quality, well-cared for, but not truly remarkable in any way. It was like the armor of the brute Freagon had killed.

Lhirin stood, casting one more lingering gaze over the interior of the building that he could see, before shaking his head and leaving it from whence he’d come.

Irah was gone, but he’d heard her footsteps fading in the direction of the other battlefield, it was just as well that she checked on the others if the mistake he’d made had already been ameliorated. That in mind, Lhirin’s silver gaze shifted over to the healer, noting Irah’s work before he looked to Freagon.

“Unwise to leave the healer alone,” he stated. “Would you stay, or should I?” The question was delivered in a neutral tone that spoke of it being a purely practical communication moreso than anything else. It would be especially…problematic to leave Bren alone given they were still catatonic from the influence of the Swaigh.

Freagon offered a curt shrug. "I'll stay. Someone has to tie up the thugs in there anyway. You can go catch up with your vreharhn."

Lhirin nodded in reply, but glanced at Bren again, his gaze lingering this time. "Messy business...I am...usually much more precise. It is the drug," he commented, the emotion in his voice difficult to parse, perhaps regret...perhaps annoyance directed inwards. He shook his head. The Knight of the Will hadn't displayed any sense of caring for such things, but it bore some explanation, if brief. Lhirin could recognize that the blunder would have made him look reckless and perhaps even foolish. He could be the former sometimes, he knew...but this had been less about that and more a result of interrupted cognition. "Should not have used so much magic at the manor. Inefficient given we knew the heale--no, that Bren needed to be retrieved." Lhirin pursed his lips briefly, looking up from Bren's catatonic form.

Then, without any further words, nothing to cap off the voice self-reflection or properly end their interaction for the moment--as people usually would have done--he turned and walked towards where he'd heard Irah's footsteps heading. He’d make his way across the distance, regarding the tree upon which the five bodies were hung, partially obscured in the foliage.

When he came into earshot, Irah was addressing Lady Bor, but he only caught the last sentence, ‘Judge him as you see fit.’ Lhirin closed enough space to be easily heard, and spoke up before anything was actually done with the one-handed bandit. “Crusader’s Guild,” Lhirin offered, half raising his previously free hand and letting the scarlet tabard emblazoned with their distinctive symbols. His tone was somewhat perfunctory, words ever-so-slightly clipped in a way that made his speech sound somewhat staccato–though this was essentially how he always spoke.

“Found in a chest where they were holding Bren. One of many,” he added as he came up beside Irah. He let the scarlet tabard drift to the dirt as his silver eyes moved to the wounded bandit. When the tabard landed, Lhirin–still looking far too intensely at the man–deliberately ground his heel down on it. “I know not if he told you anything of worth,” the deigan mage began, something dark and electric in his eyes as he stared at the man with an intensity that differed entirely from what the others would have come to know–to some degree–was the norm for him. This was more like…carefully controlled anger, but more targeted and precise, sharp.

He sheathed his Runeblade, finally and as he did so, he lightly rubbed Irah’s forearm nearest him before reaching into one of his pouches and extracting one of his iron needles. Among the same needles he’d used to deal with the divines back at the manor. “...but I doubt it is what is needed.”

“If need be, I am…certain, we can coax more useful things from this creature.” It would seem, to the others, that Lhirin didn’t even consider the man to be the same as them, as if he weren’t even worth considering as a sentient, thinking being. In fact…the deigan was looking at the bandit more like he were a particularly difficult object he’d violently stubbed his toe on…or as if he were an insect–perhaps a centipede, or something equally unpleasant and grotesque. It was…more emotion than he’d shown for the majority of their time knowing him. Irah would understand that Lhirin was essentially saying he’d be exceptionally willing to torture whatever information they needed from the man.

Of course, as she would also be aware, torture was not necessarily an effective interrogation technique. Physical torture especially. Still, the threat of further, prolonged harm, rather than a likely swift end by hanging or other form of execution might serve as a much more effective motivator for the man. Especially given the fact that his unnecessarily tight grip on the needle, along with his expression, would pretty clearly indicate that it was neither an act nor an empty threat. He was…very willing to carry out the grim task and though he did not precisely relish it, well…Irah always said it best.

‘Forswear Mercy. Invite Malice.’

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

Lhirin’s eyelid twitched slightly, then the other–asynchronous, which he noted internally–then both eyes narrowed fractionally and the neutral, if slightly grim, line of his lips turned down slightly as his feathered brows drew together in a frown. “Not my intention,” he said frankly, realizing he had miscalculated on a number of fronts. Perhaps the piaan had adled his mind more than he’d thought. How troublesome. The deigan hybrid felt Irah’s touch in the next moment, the squeeze. He turned to regard her, saw the directionality of her nod, and though it took a few instants, understood her intent. Mostly her gesture led his eyes past the open threshold and into the interior where he took in brief details, cross referencing them with Freagon’s words almost concurrently.

Still, he didn’t quite let his focus shift to that just yet, though he did give Irah a small nod to show that he’d understood even as he put his hand over hers briefly and squeezed. Someone more well adjusted might have smiled to show fondness, but Lhirin was already moving on, turning his attention to Bren.

“Mmm, messy. My apologies. Usually I have more…precise control. Irah?” The deigan mage glanced briefly at his companion, before tilting his head–not in a nod, but as to indicate the healer and–surely–his wound.

“If you could…mm, compensate for my error Vreharhn..” he said as his silver eyes held hers for a moment, warm, intense, but sharp as ever. He squeezed her hand once more, then let go, not needing a reply. Irah always did what needed to be done, provided it was within her ability.

Considering the problem of the Healer’s wound to be essentially taken care of, Lhirin moved to the next thing, literally. Crossing the distance while avoiding the bodies, Lhirin entered the farmhouse through the door that the wounded bandit had burst from. Though as he entered, he cast his eyes up first, then to the corners to either side of the threshold, before looking anywhere else.

Once within the space, his eyes shifted back and forth, first in a swift examination as he lightly extended his magical senses throughout, expending as little energy as possible to sense for anything that might show up or respond to such sensory probing. After a short while he began to scan slower, more deliberately, taking in every detail he could while he withdrew the majority of his magical senses beyond a narrow band that roughly aligned with his vision…and hovered off the surface of his clothes by an inch or so.

Lhirin noted the chest and did sweep it both swiftly and more deliberately with his vision and arcane sense, but he filed it away as a point of particular interest while he focused elsewhere on less obvious things.

There was some particular focus on corners, seams where walls met floor, tables and beneath them, as well as what he could see or feel (magically) on the four bandits within the room. Throughout he remained poised in the case of a concealed threat, his blade still in hand, his attention still enough on his hearing and the smells in the room to detect things that might be off…as well as shifts in the air against his skin or through his plumage.

Lhirin would mentally catalogue the belongings of the bandits, any objects within the room that might stand out–tools, vials, weapons, things that wouldn’t generally be found in a farmhouse–while putting commonplace things in a separate mental list. If he found nothing of note beyond the chest, he’d go to that next and inspect any lock it might have to see if he could figure the best way to access its contents. If there was no lock, well…he’d open it and see what he found. If he were to open the chest, he’d do so while standing beside it, if possible, rather than in front of it, in case it was trapped or something similar. He’d also, notably, open it very slowly, carefully, to see if he began to feel the tug of mechanisms, which if he felt, he would immediately ease the chest closed again and reconsider. This time, he was taking the time he needed to try and overcompensate for the way the piaan had just briefly before affected his processing.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Mispost

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was blinded and deafened by the blast, as expected, the light making him shut his eyes and wince as a brief, sharp, profound pain hit him, striking deep into his skull before becoming an ache that rapidly began to ebb. He turned to see the damage and couldn’t help but smile even as he wheeled about towards her and then quickstepped in, already preparing for a close range strike with the Beastflayer in its closed, glaive form.

Ophelia’s voice rang out mid-quickstep and a grim determination set in. Farren shifted his target slightly, noticing the red glow of intense heat from within Fulmen. He knew immediately it would be more fragile in that state…and the core was difficult enough to damage already, by his estimation. It likely wasn’t safe to strike with, especially while it was still open. “Torquil, withdraw!”

Farren didn’t want to risk damage to the prototype, but there wasn’t time for further words, he’d closed the distance, and now it was time to strike. Already swinging, Farren’s blade at an odd angle, not to sheer away at the limb. The bones would be too durable, especially in a beast this taken by the Old Blood–and so large besides–so instead he had nearly aligned the Beastflayer with the direction of the Profane Blade’s length and driven it in a sweeping strike meant to damage fingers and apply sufficient force that the hand would loosen, or even be pushed off the end of the grip of the massive weapon. Given that he’d begun the motion mid-quickstep, he’d had a moment to focus, and it would be a Heavy Strike, rather than a more glancing, swift blow.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

had only narrowly evaded, and was glad that he’d had the sense to plan ahead a step or so in case of failure. Seeing the lack of a stagger gave him additional data that he had a feeling applied generally to the various foes they might face during what was turning out to be an exceptionally long night of the hunt. There seemed to be some difference between a deliberate attack and whatever Arrayah was doing–throwing around her sheer mass, he supposed.

When she’d thrown her weapon–and when others had done similarly, be they natural weapons or not–an interruption with a well timed blast of quicksilver seemed to be effective. Farren had no idea what the precise mechanism was, of course, but in the moment it mattered little. Having already shifted into the motion, the Azure-eyed hunter reloaded one of his two blunderbusses before Arrayah had fully wheeled around to charge once more. He didn’t risk the second, letting them fall into their hooks as he withdrew the Beastflayer from its place on his back and brandished it, sliding one foot back as if he were bracing himself.

Around the same time he caught the silhouette of the Moonborn approaching on his right, and heard more than saw the approach of Gerlinde more or less from behind him. He even noted the running steps of Torquil some distance away behind him, along with the telltale electrical hum and crackle of Fulmen. This last bit along with Ophelia’s words told him precisely what they ought to do.

“Hit then run. Torquil's coming in with Fulmen.” Farren said, then he pushed into a quickstep. This time he met Arrayah, charged forth at her, but as he got close he cut at an angle into a second quickstep, going low and out to the right in a wide arc, swinging and extending the Beastflayer mid-motion. This would have it hopefully cut into her side, and then extend into a lengthy dragging slash as each segment caught in her and pulled with his continued momentum, cutting deeper and keeping the wound open longer.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

watched with muted satisfaction as his weapon scored its blow, burning and shearing away at flesh that knit itself back and mended in moments. That was to be expected, though the azure-eyed hunter even as he winced at the sight of Torquil’s tumble and the Moonborn’s evisceration. ‘Grisly,’ the thought struck him briefly, but he had no time to focus on that because the damned abomination turned and began to charge his way.

Farren’s eyes narrowed and he snapped the glaive back into its resting state, hoisting it into its sheath with one hand as he drew one of his blunderbusses, and then the other a mere instant after. Rather than dodge immediately, Farren gauged the distance, recalling when Arrayah had staggered previously. So, Farren briefly estimated the last moment he’d be able to avoid. When it came, he fired both blunderbusses and then entered a quickstep to the side opposite where Arrayah wielded her blade.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

smiled to himself when he witnessed the Moonborn’s much more successful assault. Though he hoped they could withdraw the blade from the horrid beast’s flesh to continue using it, rather than leaving it embedded. Still, he didn’t spare much attention for that, nor did he do more than note the amount of times Torquil had struck with Fulmen. Seven times by his estimation. If Arrayah had not been as powerful as she was, Farren might have suggested his ally discharge the weapon. With things moving swiftly, he didn’t really have much time to communicate though and there were other things to attend. Internally though, he didn’t entirely agree with Ophelia’s estimation, feeling that getting so close to ten hits might be inadvisable. Then again…Torquil was rather hardy and Arrayah was a worthy foe, if nothing else. Thus, Farren accepted the risk. Besides, once all was said and done, even if the blast killed them…well, they could simply try again. Though, it would mean that Arrayah could adjust to the properties of the weapon, in one way or another.

‘Enough thinking,’ he thought silently with a note of amused irony, then he shifted his body weight, wheeled back the Beastflayer and swung the flame-wrapped weapon, unleashing it into its bladed-whip form again to strike from some distance, though from the side opposite the Moonborn Hunter and Torquil. If no reprisal came, he’d strike a second time, this time once his feet were fully planted as he slid to a stop, bracing himself. He’d use his entire body, generating more swing by twisting as he swung the weapon.

As he used it more, he began to get a better feel for the implement, his strikes growing more focused, targeting the smaller–seemingly more vulnerable–humanoid body of Arrayah, rather than her massive distorted human-centipedal section.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

Irah spoke and the bandit’s attention was drawn to her, even as he began to move. Lhirin carefully kept the threads of energy in place relative to the man’s movements. It was by no means easy, but he had little else to truly pay attention to except his peripheral vision where Irah might signal him. The bandit, meanwhile, made his intentions known. It was almost a shame, because the chance of his being cut down within the space of the next few moments had just risen dramatically. From potentiality to near certainty.

Then, at the very beginning of the bandit's predictable response--with added racism, though perhaps that could be said to be predictable too--Irah turned slightly to Freagon, and gave a slight nod of assent. "Then die." she spoke in Fermian, interrupting him right after his statement of 'bird-brain', and turned her head slightly the other way towards Lhirin and giving him a similar nod.

Lhirin detected the faint headbob in the Knight’s direction and before the first Fermian word met air he blinked. Just once.

Electrical energy once held at bay snapped silently into motion.

No stronger than static electricity in the first instant, the energy used his magical energy as a conduit, trailing through the air without sign or signal to be detected. The moment that it was nearly to the bandit, Lhirin poured more energy into the spell so that when it entered the two blades–and the man’s body–the reaction would be immediate.

The electrical energy would hit the blades first, channeling throughout the metal, sparking visibly and threatening to travel into the bandit’s hands and–in the case of the dagger–ever-so-slightly into the healer as well. A pair of moments for the man’s instinctive reaction, and then–before any conscious response could occur–Lhirin would let the current of electrical energy just behind the man’s hip, torso, and shoulder would close the distance, ceasing to hover just shy of his body. Closing the circuit, the bandit would find his most obvious vulnerability–followed by half his upper body–in direct contact with the equivalent of something like a taser.

Lhirin, meanwhile, simply focused on maintaining the spell, ensuring it did not lose contact, but also ensuring he could either cut off its flow of energy, modulate it as necessary, or shift its focus as needed. He made no motion to close the distance, he didn’t even raise his runeblade. His wide-eyed gaze remained locked on the bandit, his lips a firm line. Irah might catch the faintest twitch at one corner of his lips. What that indicated however was hard to say, even for her.

Perhaps the only thing one could clearly identify upon his visage was raw intensity and focus.