CRACK BOOM
A bolt of lightning snaked out of the woods, briefly blinding and deafening anyone nearby, and cutting through the empty space where Reika and Kitsueki had been; following the path of least resistance, it arced onward. Brenya Lilibloom, instructor of Mystic Societies and Speech, collapsed. The air around her became superheated and popped the remaining balloons on the dartboard beside her.
After that opening volley, a widely arrayed salvo of magic attacks burst from the forest, aimed at those few individuals still fleeing the festival. Chief Mealla Brennan had clasped hands with two more instructors and made to whisk them away along the nearest ley line. Instead, they were flung to the East coast of Japan as Chief Brennan collided with a wickedly sharp spur of earth that rose before her, impaling her torso.
Lyra, Riley, and Erin stood poised and ready, easily eluding the poorly aimed magic missiles, but it was quickly evident that they were outnumbered and the foes approaching through the Wilderwood possessed immense power. Wards rippled and whined under the pressure and volume of those attacks, and this was just the first volley. More coordinated attacks would test their limits.
Aboard the Everlasting
Tanuki's anxiety grew as the Everlasting accelerated and gained altitude. Nothing was happening! She furrowed her brows in concentration. She didn't have long to figure it out. In just a few short minutes they would be visible to anyone with eyes in Osaka-- and more importantly, visible to the assailants of Safeholme.
Within the Wilderwood
The intruders were not operating freely in their assault. An evoker tripped when a stone across the creek was revealed to be illusory. She fell into the shallows with a cacophonous splash and rose up to find the air abuzz with a hundred angry pixies. She lashed out with gouts of flame from one hand, searing the air like a Vietnam-era flamethrower. Slap! a koi fish splashed downstream after delivering a distracting blow to the woman's cheek. She spun, confused, and left herself open to the pixies. Her screams of fright were ignored by her peers.
An illusionist collapsed, unconscious. Blood oozed from his gaping shoulder wound and dripped from the keen edge of Skarnir's greataxe. Blood and chili spoiled his apron. One down, only a baker's dozen to go. Then there came a scream from the creek. Scratch that, they were down to a proper dozen. The fastest of them were approaching the edge of the woods and would come into view soon.
The Siege of Safeholme had officially begun.
Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
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Mr. Blackbird Lore
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- Joined: Fri Dec 31, 2010 1:48 pm
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Gwathdraug
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Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
Lyra struck her sword out, slicing through a pair of missiles that had strayed too close to them. Despite the coordinated response from the staff in getting the students away from danger it was clear that many of the instructors left behind were not prepared for what was at hand.
No. As the swordswoman lifted her guard and settled her stance once more the fresh, iron scent of blood rolled over her. They couldn't be prepared, this was a whole different world. Her eyes still darting about for new attacks to cut down, Lyra called out to Riley. "Sparks, what do you have for me."
"Can you protect me?" One of Riley's voices came from behind even as she also began to walk forward.
"To my last."
---
As Lyra responded, Riley was already sinking to the ground on one knee. She was walking unguarded, past fallen bodies, out into the crossfire. Their fingers ripped away at the grass and then sunk like talons into the soft dirt. Their free hand, a fist, brought up and pressed against their forehead in a movement reminiscent of prayer. Dyrnwyn, free of its scabbard, was in her hand. Soft fire consuming the blade and licking across her grip and up until it covered her shoulder.
The distant leyline was grasped for, cupped gently and brought alive.
"A land ablaze its master fled,
To a lordship it must be fed,"
Their voice spoke the words/Her sword carved from fire the angular runes around her.
"A title claim we did not seek,
But in shadow our foe is meek,"
The meaning existed in both sound and light. As the power hung in the air the world continue to move and shake and respond to the violence engulfing it, but every shadow froze bound to the moment.
"Against an enemy on the move,
This forgotten lordship we will prove,"
With a great crash dirt and stone rose up to swallow her with her blade and flames while they remained motionless - rooted and unable to move - behind the defensive wall that was Lyra.
"Chase not the relief of an end on the points of teeth,
Chase not an escape into the ash of long burnt fire,"
The words still slipped out from Riley where they knelt behind Lyra, but now the stone plinth that had risen at the edge of the trees vibrated of its own and added an immovable voice to the declaration.
"This battlefield will be repaid in grief,
So we speak to the earth as a sire."
The final word split the risen stone in half and from it an eyeless, mouthless dragon of pure white rose - shaking away the monolith of earth as if it was dust. Dyrnwyn was sunk to its hilt at the center of the beast's spine and the blade's flame ran in a great ridge from head to tail. The dragon spread its wings blotting out the remaining targets in the clearing from the missiles still seeking them and it's head was craned high in a mouthless roar that rippled the earth.
KNOW NOT MY NAME. KNOW THAT I HAVE COME.
No. As the swordswoman lifted her guard and settled her stance once more the fresh, iron scent of blood rolled over her. They couldn't be prepared, this was a whole different world. Her eyes still darting about for new attacks to cut down, Lyra called out to Riley. "Sparks, what do you have for me."
"Can you protect me?" One of Riley's voices came from behind even as she also began to walk forward.
"To my last."
---
As Lyra responded, Riley was already sinking to the ground on one knee. She was walking unguarded, past fallen bodies, out into the crossfire. Their fingers ripped away at the grass and then sunk like talons into the soft dirt. Their free hand, a fist, brought up and pressed against their forehead in a movement reminiscent of prayer. Dyrnwyn, free of its scabbard, was in her hand. Soft fire consuming the blade and licking across her grip and up until it covered her shoulder.
The distant leyline was grasped for, cupped gently and brought alive.
"A land ablaze its master fled,
To a lordship it must be fed,"
Their voice spoke the words/Her sword carved from fire the angular runes around her.
"A title claim we did not seek,
But in shadow our foe is meek,"
The meaning existed in both sound and light. As the power hung in the air the world continue to move and shake and respond to the violence engulfing it, but every shadow froze bound to the moment.
"Against an enemy on the move,
This forgotten lordship we will prove,"
With a great crash dirt and stone rose up to swallow her with her blade and flames while they remained motionless - rooted and unable to move - behind the defensive wall that was Lyra.
"Chase not the relief of an end on the points of teeth,
Chase not an escape into the ash of long burnt fire,"
The words still slipped out from Riley where they knelt behind Lyra, but now the stone plinth that had risen at the edge of the trees vibrated of its own and added an immovable voice to the declaration.
"This battlefield will be repaid in grief,
So we speak to the earth as a sire."
The final word split the risen stone in half and from it an eyeless, mouthless dragon of pure white rose - shaking away the monolith of earth as if it was dust. Dyrnwyn was sunk to its hilt at the center of the beast's spine and the blade's flame ran in a great ridge from head to tail. The dragon spread its wings blotting out the remaining targets in the clearing from the missiles still seeking them and it's head was craned high in a mouthless roar that rippled the earth.
KNOW NOT MY NAME. KNOW THAT I HAVE COME.
Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
SHUNK, SHUNK, SHUNK!
Above, the skylight rapidly tore open to reveal the sky. The Everlasting began to purr, as her engine greedily fed upon a well of mana that would never end. The faeries, their tasks complete, hovered about the Alchemist as he stood at the helm, staring up at the sky. With his one hand, Percival grasped the wheel, and then a tendril of energy snapped from his empty shoulder to an orb mounted aside.
The moment he made the connection, the engines began to scream in delight as the Everlasting shuddered forth on the rail. Miyuki would find the sail already protesting intensely as it tried to unfurl, the coat of frost beginning to rapidly melt. Ice sloughed off the fae wing mast, and soaked the ice mage through.
—
Tura had lived in the Wilderwood all her life. Her nest was a safe distance from the troll’s den that everyone seemed so keen on warning her about. She knew better, there was no troll there, only a thinly human and his occasional visitors. This part of the Wilderwood was safe and quiet for that very reason, and she enjoyed it.
Today was different, though. There was loudness in the distance, and it had her on edge. She kept craning her neck up and down to see if anything was coming. Then, the whole world began to shake.
FWUOHMP!
She looked back at the troll's den just in time to see something enormous emerge from it, a massive creature that spread three wings as it took to the sky. It rose for a moment, before falling and gliding over the trees, cutting a wide wake of leaves.
—
The Everlasting sailed on the tree-tops like they were water. As Percival had imagined, the main-sail extended fully, and was now exhausting enormous amounts of heat into the sky. While it meant that it would be able to handle being in the open air now, they’d have trouble hiding once…
Were they still visible? Yes they were.
Percival looked over his shoulder at the often over-confident girl struggling with the ship model. Of course. Of course she wouldn’t do it right away. It was different. It was new. It was strange. Moreover, the further they moved across the Wilderwood, the more stressed she seemed to become. The Alchemist should have known; when he was her age, he buckled under less in more ordinary circumstances.
“Tanuki! Breathe! Just breathe!” Percival called over his shoulder against the buffeting wind. The Alchemist began devising a plan in his mind, trying to form something functional in his head. A small lie began to come together and he announced. “You’ll do fine! It took Fairburn a whole minute to figure it out.”
He tensed and braced himself to turn the wheel to get the ship to guide toward the front gate. The Everlasting made its shift and bounced over more of the trees.
“Miyuki! Can you get a storm going? We can get to the ocean if we cut down visib–...”
Then, he felt it, a fierce uptick in energy, the growth of an enormous, familiar presence at the grounds. There was fighting happening in the courtyard where the festival had been. Not everyone had made it out. There had to be people still trapped here.
Dammit.
Percival looked back at Tanuki, thinking about how much easier it was when the Menagerie had been children without children to look after.
“Change of plans! We’re going to the courtyard; we need to save who we can and get them the hell out of here. I’ll leave the gritty details to you, Miyu!” said Mr. Caxton as the ship turned again, cutting out over the treeline and the garden. There in the courtyard, a dragon began to rise to its full power, and then, the airship rounded and flared its momentum to stop meters behind it.
Above, the skylight rapidly tore open to reveal the sky. The Everlasting began to purr, as her engine greedily fed upon a well of mana that would never end. The faeries, their tasks complete, hovered about the Alchemist as he stood at the helm, staring up at the sky. With his one hand, Percival grasped the wheel, and then a tendril of energy snapped from his empty shoulder to an orb mounted aside.
The moment he made the connection, the engines began to scream in delight as the Everlasting shuddered forth on the rail. Miyuki would find the sail already protesting intensely as it tried to unfurl, the coat of frost beginning to rapidly melt. Ice sloughed off the fae wing mast, and soaked the ice mage through.
—
Tura had lived in the Wilderwood all her life. Her nest was a safe distance from the troll’s den that everyone seemed so keen on warning her about. She knew better, there was no troll there, only a thinly human and his occasional visitors. This part of the Wilderwood was safe and quiet for that very reason, and she enjoyed it.
Today was different, though. There was loudness in the distance, and it had her on edge. She kept craning her neck up and down to see if anything was coming. Then, the whole world began to shake.
FWUOHMP!
She looked back at the troll's den just in time to see something enormous emerge from it, a massive creature that spread three wings as it took to the sky. It rose for a moment, before falling and gliding over the trees, cutting a wide wake of leaves.
—
The Everlasting sailed on the tree-tops like they were water. As Percival had imagined, the main-sail extended fully, and was now exhausting enormous amounts of heat into the sky. While it meant that it would be able to handle being in the open air now, they’d have trouble hiding once…
Were they still visible? Yes they were.
Percival looked over his shoulder at the often over-confident girl struggling with the ship model. Of course. Of course she wouldn’t do it right away. It was different. It was new. It was strange. Moreover, the further they moved across the Wilderwood, the more stressed she seemed to become. The Alchemist should have known; when he was her age, he buckled under less in more ordinary circumstances.
“Tanuki! Breathe! Just breathe!” Percival called over his shoulder against the buffeting wind. The Alchemist began devising a plan in his mind, trying to form something functional in his head. A small lie began to come together and he announced. “You’ll do fine! It took Fairburn a whole minute to figure it out.”
He tensed and braced himself to turn the wheel to get the ship to guide toward the front gate. The Everlasting made its shift and bounced over more of the trees.
“Miyuki! Can you get a storm going? We can get to the ocean if we cut down visib–...”
Then, he felt it, a fierce uptick in energy, the growth of an enormous, familiar presence at the grounds. There was fighting happening in the courtyard where the festival had been. Not everyone had made it out. There had to be people still trapped here.
Dammit.
Percival looked back at Tanuki, thinking about how much easier it was when the Menagerie had been children without children to look after.
“Change of plans! We’re going to the courtyard; we need to save who we can and get them the hell out of here. I’ll leave the gritty details to you, Miyu!” said Mr. Caxton as the ship turned again, cutting out over the treeline and the garden. There in the courtyard, a dragon began to rise to its full power, and then, the airship rounded and flared its momentum to stop meters behind it.
Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
The Wilderwood
Two loud bellowing tantaras sounded from a warhorn as Skarnir announced his arrival to the fray. To his disappointment he seemed to have gotten rusty as the interloper he had felled remained in one piece, but took heart in having many opportunities to dust off. The smell of blood and fire in the air focused his mind and filled him with energy, and with mighty strides the massive Norseman barreled through the trees of the Wilderwood. Before long he and another of the intruders burst through some foliage and wound up face to face. The man was clearly a mage through and through as he began to chant and wave his hands, to which Skarnir punched the man in the throat with his free hand. As the man recoiled and clutched at his collapsed esophagus Skarnir brought his hand back to his belt, pulled his long knife, and stabbed it upward into the other man’s head.
“Why do mages always try to chant even when their opponent is right in their face?” Skarnir wondered aloud as he withdrew his knife and gave it a flick as the body of the man dropped. To be fair he was quite adept at killing mages, as tended to be the trend among Skarnirs past. That’s how he came to meet Ruarc Flynn, and that’s why Flynn had asked him to come to Safeholme; but it is not why he found himself staying. He liked it here. He liked the students and the atmosphere, even that Kashevsky lad and Fairburn lass seemed like potential candidates to be the next Skarnir should he end up dying here. And perhaps most importantly he had the feeling that staying was right.
However, Skarnir had no intentions of dying and passing on the mantle. Taking a moment to linger in the thicket after sheathing the knife to properly prepare, he reached up and tore the chili and blood stained apron off and touched a metal emblem pinned to the center of his shirt. Emanating from the pin, a series of polished metal scales folded outward and into place across his chest, over his arms, and down past his waist. Once the process was finished, Skarnir stood in a suit of adamantine scalemail accented by pauldrons, shoulder guards, a gorget, and greaves. The sounds of motion came, and cries of battle told him it was time to move. Closer and closer the intruders came to the place Skarnir stood concealed. His blood thumped loudly as his body knew battle was close at hand. Mere moments. Meters separated them as what sounded like three people rushed up the path, and then a scant few feet remained.
“Å leve og dø på denne dagen!” Skarnir roared as he leapt from cover to intercept one of the mages. Inches between them, the Norseman checked the woman with the shaft of his axe before bringing it to bear on the other two. “To live and die on this day!”
The Festival Grounds
The portals had opened, alarms had raised, and Mealla had begun moving without much consideration. She had been in the courtyard when the gates between Safeholme and the Keep opened, a feat she’d thought only Chief Engleby capable of, and she saw people panicking. Mustering the nearby Keepers-on-the-Wall into the breach. Flowing cloaks of rich burgundy fabric adorned with shining metal pauldrons set about evacuating nearby civilians back to the Keep, and to nearby portals when the Keep’s was too crowded or far away; but Chief Brennan took to sprinting across the festival grounds. There were bystanders too far from convenient portals or unable to move quick enough, and those would be her focus. On spritely leaps, bounds, and pivots the prodigious woman dodged a number of incoming spells while wordlessly tossing out her own ripostes in the form of sear streaks of light from her fingers. That was merely covering fire however, and the instant she reached two elders she grabbed their hands and was away on the ley lines. She was less than fluent on the Japanese lines, so her speed and precision were less than ideal; but after a few moments she was back on the grounds and shepherding the next set of individuals away to safety.
Two more trips, and Mealla was back in time to see the last few stragglers making for portals. There were dead and injured scattered across the grounds Ruarc had tended with care for years, and a pang of anger welled in her chest. This was the chance she’d been hoping for. A chance to get her hands dirty again, and perhaps fight alongside Ruarc on one of his escapades as she was sure he’d be on the war path after this. First though, she needed to finish evac. Two of the school’s instructors were under fire and too far from a portal. Darting through the tumult she grabbed them and made to leave. Just as the world began to fade to blurs, she was arrested by unbelievable pain. She hacked, and a wash of blood and viscera filled her lungs and mouth. Looking down numbly, she registered the stoney jut that had risen to impale her.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was the best. A duelist unrivaled in the Order and beyond. A daughter of a lord, and apprentice to the Ard Rhys himself. She was supposed to have stood as Silas’ marshall, standing by his side during the Tubaiste Deiridh. Not dying like this.
“No,” Mealla croaked, her voice drowned and raspy. This was the best way to die. She had been fast tracked through the Keeper ranks to the point where she realized she’d never been a proper one. Sure, she was a duelist with a pedigree, but comparing her scars to those of Keepers like Ruarc or Roan would make her feel sheepish. But not today. Not this. She had charged into the breach, and saved the lives of many who might not have made it otherwise. Her regrets were numerous, but this would not be one of them. Weakly lifting a hand to rest on the hilt of her saber, she looked over her shoulder towards the portal leading to the Keep. Time moved painfully slow in these last few moments, but she was grateful for the last extended look towards her home and her family. Just as a couple of Keepers on the other side noticed their commander had been gravely injured and began to mobilize, the portal snapped shut.
Mealla remained there, half slumped upon the stone spear, and let her head fall so that she could rest as her burgundy cloak grew a deeper red; the sigil of the Keepers, a sword with a dragon coiling around it surrounded by a Celtic wreath, was pierced through.
Two loud bellowing tantaras sounded from a warhorn as Skarnir announced his arrival to the fray. To his disappointment he seemed to have gotten rusty as the interloper he had felled remained in one piece, but took heart in having many opportunities to dust off. The smell of blood and fire in the air focused his mind and filled him with energy, and with mighty strides the massive Norseman barreled through the trees of the Wilderwood. Before long he and another of the intruders burst through some foliage and wound up face to face. The man was clearly a mage through and through as he began to chant and wave his hands, to which Skarnir punched the man in the throat with his free hand. As the man recoiled and clutched at his collapsed esophagus Skarnir brought his hand back to his belt, pulled his long knife, and stabbed it upward into the other man’s head.
“Why do mages always try to chant even when their opponent is right in their face?” Skarnir wondered aloud as he withdrew his knife and gave it a flick as the body of the man dropped. To be fair he was quite adept at killing mages, as tended to be the trend among Skarnirs past. That’s how he came to meet Ruarc Flynn, and that’s why Flynn had asked him to come to Safeholme; but it is not why he found himself staying. He liked it here. He liked the students and the atmosphere, even that Kashevsky lad and Fairburn lass seemed like potential candidates to be the next Skarnir should he end up dying here. And perhaps most importantly he had the feeling that staying was right.
However, Skarnir had no intentions of dying and passing on the mantle. Taking a moment to linger in the thicket after sheathing the knife to properly prepare, he reached up and tore the chili and blood stained apron off and touched a metal emblem pinned to the center of his shirt. Emanating from the pin, a series of polished metal scales folded outward and into place across his chest, over his arms, and down past his waist. Once the process was finished, Skarnir stood in a suit of adamantine scalemail accented by pauldrons, shoulder guards, a gorget, and greaves. The sounds of motion came, and cries of battle told him it was time to move. Closer and closer the intruders came to the place Skarnir stood concealed. His blood thumped loudly as his body knew battle was close at hand. Mere moments. Meters separated them as what sounded like three people rushed up the path, and then a scant few feet remained.
“Å leve og dø på denne dagen!” Skarnir roared as he leapt from cover to intercept one of the mages. Inches between them, the Norseman checked the woman with the shaft of his axe before bringing it to bear on the other two. “To live and die on this day!”
The Festival Grounds
The portals had opened, alarms had raised, and Mealla had begun moving without much consideration. She had been in the courtyard when the gates between Safeholme and the Keep opened, a feat she’d thought only Chief Engleby capable of, and she saw people panicking. Mustering the nearby Keepers-on-the-Wall into the breach. Flowing cloaks of rich burgundy fabric adorned with shining metal pauldrons set about evacuating nearby civilians back to the Keep, and to nearby portals when the Keep’s was too crowded or far away; but Chief Brennan took to sprinting across the festival grounds. There were bystanders too far from convenient portals or unable to move quick enough, and those would be her focus. On spritely leaps, bounds, and pivots the prodigious woman dodged a number of incoming spells while wordlessly tossing out her own ripostes in the form of sear streaks of light from her fingers. That was merely covering fire however, and the instant she reached two elders she grabbed their hands and was away on the ley lines. She was less than fluent on the Japanese lines, so her speed and precision were less than ideal; but after a few moments she was back on the grounds and shepherding the next set of individuals away to safety.
Two more trips, and Mealla was back in time to see the last few stragglers making for portals. There were dead and injured scattered across the grounds Ruarc had tended with care for years, and a pang of anger welled in her chest. This was the chance she’d been hoping for. A chance to get her hands dirty again, and perhaps fight alongside Ruarc on one of his escapades as she was sure he’d be on the war path after this. First though, she needed to finish evac. Two of the school’s instructors were under fire and too far from a portal. Darting through the tumult she grabbed them and made to leave. Just as the world began to fade to blurs, she was arrested by unbelievable pain. She hacked, and a wash of blood and viscera filled her lungs and mouth. Looking down numbly, she registered the stoney jut that had risen to impale her.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was the best. A duelist unrivaled in the Order and beyond. A daughter of a lord, and apprentice to the Ard Rhys himself. She was supposed to have stood as Silas’ marshall, standing by his side during the Tubaiste Deiridh. Not dying like this.
“No,” Mealla croaked, her voice drowned and raspy. This was the best way to die. She had been fast tracked through the Keeper ranks to the point where she realized she’d never been a proper one. Sure, she was a duelist with a pedigree, but comparing her scars to those of Keepers like Ruarc or Roan would make her feel sheepish. But not today. Not this. She had charged into the breach, and saved the lives of many who might not have made it otherwise. Her regrets were numerous, but this would not be one of them. Weakly lifting a hand to rest on the hilt of her saber, she looked over her shoulder towards the portal leading to the Keep. Time moved painfully slow in these last few moments, but she was grateful for the last extended look towards her home and her family. Just as a couple of Keepers on the other side noticed their commander had been gravely injured and began to mobilize, the portal snapped shut.
Mealla remained there, half slumped upon the stone spear, and let her head fall so that she could rest as her burgundy cloak grew a deeper red; the sigil of the Keepers, a sword with a dragon coiling around it surrounded by a Celtic wreath, was pierced through.
Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
The Everlasting
Miyuki did her best to contain the heat coming from the mast, the water and ice sloughing off simply being captured by her magic, cooled down and sent back on the job, until finally the heat dissipating sails began to wrest themselves free; she let them unfurl themselves with no protest and watched as they broke off into the evening sky. despite having been soaked through, the woman's mastery of the element of water in all its forms, rather than simply ice, meant that her clothes had wrung themselves dry within a matter of moments, and she seemed none the worse for wear.
upon Percy's request, the Raven-haired Ice mage grinned and shouted back a joking "Aye Aye Cap'n" in the most piratey accented English she could muster, giving him a sarcastic salute and throwing her palms to the sky. Wordlessly, she began to weave a spell of clouds and rain, mist and water, bringing about a storm which began to take on a life of its own. Not merely clouds, the Ice Queen's storm swiftly became a thunderhead, charged with more than just ice and wind, but potent magical energies that neared the limits of what she had at her disposal, and the storm grew around, shrouding them, and the grounds, and even stretching out to cover much of Osaka in such a manner that obscured not only the ship, but everything mor miles around.
This display, however, was clearly taking much of the Ice Queen's concentration, and she stood on the deck without much else to defend herself than the magically charged maelstrom.
Miyuki did her best to contain the heat coming from the mast, the water and ice sloughing off simply being captured by her magic, cooled down and sent back on the job, until finally the heat dissipating sails began to wrest themselves free; she let them unfurl themselves with no protest and watched as they broke off into the evening sky. despite having been soaked through, the woman's mastery of the element of water in all its forms, rather than simply ice, meant that her clothes had wrung themselves dry within a matter of moments, and she seemed none the worse for wear.
upon Percy's request, the Raven-haired Ice mage grinned and shouted back a joking "Aye Aye Cap'n" in the most piratey accented English she could muster, giving him a sarcastic salute and throwing her palms to the sky. Wordlessly, she began to weave a spell of clouds and rain, mist and water, bringing about a storm which began to take on a life of its own. Not merely clouds, the Ice Queen's storm swiftly became a thunderhead, charged with more than just ice and wind, but potent magical energies that neared the limits of what she had at her disposal, and the storm grew around, shrouding them, and the grounds, and even stretching out to cover much of Osaka in such a manner that obscured not only the ship, but everything mor miles around.
This display, however, was clearly taking much of the Ice Queen's concentration, and she stood on the deck without much else to defend herself than the magically charged maelstrom.
-
Mr. Blackbird Lore
- Posts: 722
- Joined: Fri Dec 31, 2010 1:48 pm
Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
The Festival Grounds
A scattergun salvo of raw mana burst forth from the Wilderwood. Lyra skillfully deflected the dangerous blasts, letting the others harmlessly pass them by. The caster emerged moments later, a man whose raw power rippled the air around him like a heat wave.
KNOW NOT MY NAME. KNOW THAT I HAVE COME.
At the words, the man paused briefly, startled. They had said she was an illusionist, all parlor tricks and sleights. The dragon before him was no illusion! This would cost him. "To me!" he shouted and spread his arms wide. More battle mages emerged, dressed for the occasion and armed to the teeth. Of particular note, however, was their distinctly similar appearances. Not like family, but a shared geography. Save for one, they were all distinctly Chinese. The last was of African descent.
"Shield me and the psychic," he commanded, then pulled his arms forward, focusing his incredible power to a single point in front of him. The ground trembled. Trees creaked and bent toward him. Loose detritus from the festival tables slipped free as if drawn by some magnetic force. The real cause was visible to everyone present, magically aware as they were. He was drawing all the mana in the natural aura to himself, careful not to bleed his allies. Even the clouds directly overhead, having been gathered by the application of mana, formed a swirling vapor trail like the start of a tornado lazily spiraled toward the arcanist.
With their orders, the half dozen battle mages that had emerged leaped into action. It was immediately obvious that their plan was to encircle Lyra and Riley to strike from all sides simultaneously. A geomancer swept South, surfing along the rolling earth beneath her feet. There came a boom like thunder and a flash of light zipped across the common grounds behind her. It wasn't lightning, but something-- or someone-- blasting through the sound barrier to reposition.
To their North, an elementalist flew on jets of fire from her hands; a dark-skinned necromancer was carried high and fast in the arms of spirits at his beck and call; the third member of this flank, however, was familiar to Lyra. He was no mage, but a mageslayer, and a mercenary much like herself. Enchanted boots carried him in bounding strides across the battlefield. Enchanted gauntlets drew a magic sword from the half-sheath on his back. She knew all that he wore carried at least one, if not a handful, of enchantments. To mute those powers would be incredibly difficult, and would require close proximity. To come that close would be to engage in a duel with someone who had been conducting a one-man mundane war all his life-- and winning. Nothing could more clearly indicate to her that though this force was small, whoever had directed this attack was pulling no punches.
The other thing she noticed was that the arcanist draining the Wilderwood of power had mentioned a psychic, but there was not one visible.
At the Front Gate
The alarm had sounded. Cries of fear and pain and anguish had erupted. Battle had begun. The earth quaked with it. Unnatural clouds rapidly grew overhead and even formed what looked like a tornado. But beyond this gate, the mundane world remained in peace and ignorance. Safeholme's boundary wards, at least here, remained functional. In his nook, Aurus glowered out at the mundane world. Something was not right. He could feel it in his bones, sure as breathing. He could not abandon his post, even to assist. His instincts cried that it was a trap. Not a diversion, but merely an initial front. Another force was coming his way. But where...
There was a motion, like the undefinable waver of movement in the corner of his eye. "AAAAHHHHGHGGGH!" Aurus bellowed and leaped feet-first to the ground. His fall was broken by the soft body of an unarmored and heavily glamored mage, who groaned and writhed in pain. Aurus wrapped two powerful fists around an ankle of his victim and hauled the man up-- and slammed him back down in the Safeholme courtyard. "SPEAK YOUR COWARD MASTER'S NAME!"
But the mage could not speak, for he was thoroughly concussed. Aurus huffed and hulk-slammed the mage a second time. "Weak AND a coward!" He stamped on the necklaced gem that glamored the mage and it shattered, then he took up their wand and snapped it with one angry fist. The broken mage could only whimper. "This is no place for the likes of you. But for me, IT CALLS!" Confident that the gate had been sufficiently guarded, Aurus rushed to battle.
A second glimmer slipped through the gate unnoticed, careful not to disturb the meticulous wards. The thief grinned and crept carefully toward the school. He did not know the precise location of his objective, but he could sense the many sources of power on the campus. To his acute senses, the collection of stifled objects in that lone little cabin provoked his interest more than the myriad unveiled objects within the schoolhouse.
The Everlasting
Tanuki frowned and looked over her shoulder at Professor Caxton. "That's ridiculous!" She shouted over the wind. "She can't even do that!" But the seed of doubt had already been sown. CAN she make things awesome like me? It was ridiculous! No one could do what she did. Not a single teacher or student. She was special. She could do this. Only she could do this.
And then she felt it. That nervous edge when she was quieting herself, getting sneaky. "Be sneaky," she muttered so quietly she couldn't hear herself over the wind. Her eyes closed again. There was a new sensation. It was like... her hand was bigger, but not really bigger. It could just feel more places. Like her nerves were stretching out beyond the boundaries of her skin and tasting the air like a snake's tongue. She could feel the model, and feel the model's... other-model. That was the only word she could find for it.
Stupid mages and their stupid special words, she grumbled silently. The extra feeling began to subside in her distracted state, and she forced it out farther, toward that other-model. She seized it. Immediately she could tell it had worked. The model was awesome, like her. The little Japanese girl smiled.
The Everlasting, already hard to spot against the rapidly building clouds overhead, became entirely invisible to the mundane eye.
A scattergun salvo of raw mana burst forth from the Wilderwood. Lyra skillfully deflected the dangerous blasts, letting the others harmlessly pass them by. The caster emerged moments later, a man whose raw power rippled the air around him like a heat wave.
KNOW NOT MY NAME. KNOW THAT I HAVE COME.
At the words, the man paused briefly, startled. They had said she was an illusionist, all parlor tricks and sleights. The dragon before him was no illusion! This would cost him. "To me!" he shouted and spread his arms wide. More battle mages emerged, dressed for the occasion and armed to the teeth. Of particular note, however, was their distinctly similar appearances. Not like family, but a shared geography. Save for one, they were all distinctly Chinese. The last was of African descent.
"Shield me and the psychic," he commanded, then pulled his arms forward, focusing his incredible power to a single point in front of him. The ground trembled. Trees creaked and bent toward him. Loose detritus from the festival tables slipped free as if drawn by some magnetic force. The real cause was visible to everyone present, magically aware as they were. He was drawing all the mana in the natural aura to himself, careful not to bleed his allies. Even the clouds directly overhead, having been gathered by the application of mana, formed a swirling vapor trail like the start of a tornado lazily spiraled toward the arcanist.
With their orders, the half dozen battle mages that had emerged leaped into action. It was immediately obvious that their plan was to encircle Lyra and Riley to strike from all sides simultaneously. A geomancer swept South, surfing along the rolling earth beneath her feet. There came a boom like thunder and a flash of light zipped across the common grounds behind her. It wasn't lightning, but something-- or someone-- blasting through the sound barrier to reposition.
To their North, an elementalist flew on jets of fire from her hands; a dark-skinned necromancer was carried high and fast in the arms of spirits at his beck and call; the third member of this flank, however, was familiar to Lyra. He was no mage, but a mageslayer, and a mercenary much like herself. Enchanted boots carried him in bounding strides across the battlefield. Enchanted gauntlets drew a magic sword from the half-sheath on his back. She knew all that he wore carried at least one, if not a handful, of enchantments. To mute those powers would be incredibly difficult, and would require close proximity. To come that close would be to engage in a duel with someone who had been conducting a one-man mundane war all his life-- and winning. Nothing could more clearly indicate to her that though this force was small, whoever had directed this attack was pulling no punches.
The other thing she noticed was that the arcanist draining the Wilderwood of power had mentioned a psychic, but there was not one visible.
At the Front Gate
The alarm had sounded. Cries of fear and pain and anguish had erupted. Battle had begun. The earth quaked with it. Unnatural clouds rapidly grew overhead and even formed what looked like a tornado. But beyond this gate, the mundane world remained in peace and ignorance. Safeholme's boundary wards, at least here, remained functional. In his nook, Aurus glowered out at the mundane world. Something was not right. He could feel it in his bones, sure as breathing. He could not abandon his post, even to assist. His instincts cried that it was a trap. Not a diversion, but merely an initial front. Another force was coming his way. But where...
There was a motion, like the undefinable waver of movement in the corner of his eye. "AAAAHHHHGHGGGH!" Aurus bellowed and leaped feet-first to the ground. His fall was broken by the soft body of an unarmored and heavily glamored mage, who groaned and writhed in pain. Aurus wrapped two powerful fists around an ankle of his victim and hauled the man up-- and slammed him back down in the Safeholme courtyard. "SPEAK YOUR COWARD MASTER'S NAME!"
But the mage could not speak, for he was thoroughly concussed. Aurus huffed and hulk-slammed the mage a second time. "Weak AND a coward!" He stamped on the necklaced gem that glamored the mage and it shattered, then he took up their wand and snapped it with one angry fist. The broken mage could only whimper. "This is no place for the likes of you. But for me, IT CALLS!" Confident that the gate had been sufficiently guarded, Aurus rushed to battle.
A second glimmer slipped through the gate unnoticed, careful not to disturb the meticulous wards. The thief grinned and crept carefully toward the school. He did not know the precise location of his objective, but he could sense the many sources of power on the campus. To his acute senses, the collection of stifled objects in that lone little cabin provoked his interest more than the myriad unveiled objects within the schoolhouse.
The Everlasting
Tanuki frowned and looked over her shoulder at Professor Caxton. "That's ridiculous!" She shouted over the wind. "She can't even do that!" But the seed of doubt had already been sown. CAN she make things awesome like me? It was ridiculous! No one could do what she did. Not a single teacher or student. She was special. She could do this. Only she could do this.
And then she felt it. That nervous edge when she was quieting herself, getting sneaky. "Be sneaky," she muttered so quietly she couldn't hear herself over the wind. Her eyes closed again. There was a new sensation. It was like... her hand was bigger, but not really bigger. It could just feel more places. Like her nerves were stretching out beyond the boundaries of her skin and tasting the air like a snake's tongue. She could feel the model, and feel the model's... other-model. That was the only word she could find for it.
Stupid mages and their stupid special words, she grumbled silently. The extra feeling began to subside in her distracted state, and she forced it out farther, toward that other-model. She seized it. Immediately she could tell it had worked. The model was awesome, like her. The little Japanese girl smiled.
The Everlasting, already hard to spot against the rapidly building clouds overhead, became entirely invisible to the mundane eye.
Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
The Everlasting swept into the front yard, its presence hidden from sight, albeit not likely from sound. Unlike a regular ship, the airship moved like a rotary-wing aircraft, forcing gravity away downward more and more as power was applied to the sails. As it flew, the port and starboard wings would catch downward force and redirect it. The mainsail allowed it to surge forth, and was directly responsible for being able to turn and nimbly speed and slow. Out in the open, they were exposed, invisible as they were.
“Ha ha! Excellent, Tanuki!” Percival laughed, looking back to see the model had disappeared from sight. “I knew you had it.”
However, things were a mess on the ground. Aurus had deployed to the field, now. Riley was down there somewhere, the dragon meant that much. Lyra was with her, and there were others enclosing them. Maella was…
Percival’s heart dropped as he finally caught sight of Ruarc’s mentor, pinioned on the end of an earthen spike. He could see bodies laid low of friends and staff. There were people down there he had commiserated over coffee just that morning on having to put so much work into this festival. Where was Ruarc? Where was Jane? Why were there still people here if there were supposed to be portals?
The Alchemist could feel a subtle ticking in the back of his mind. Time was slowly running out. He had a student on the ship, and she needed to be far away from this place. His siblings were on the ground, threatened to be overrun.
What if Maella was still alive? Brenya? He could see Brenya on the ground, but she wasn’t moving.
Triage your thoughts, Percy.
They were closing on his sisters, they were focused on his sisters. Disrupt the plan. Cause chaos. Observe.
“Miyu! That one in the back is casting a spell. He’s drawing something up,” Percival brought the Everlasting around, and glided back down for another pass into the field. “I’m going to sweep in low near him. I need you to hit him as hard as you’ve hit anyone in your life or this is going to be a lot worse.”
Percival pressed the engines and surged the vessel forth, “Unless you see a better target, I’m going to get you as close as I can. I’ll keep making passes, if you fly in the air, I’ll scoop you up on the ship and hide you. If we can disorient them enough, Riles’ll have a better chance against them.”
“Ha ha! Excellent, Tanuki!” Percival laughed, looking back to see the model had disappeared from sight. “I knew you had it.”
However, things were a mess on the ground. Aurus had deployed to the field, now. Riley was down there somewhere, the dragon meant that much. Lyra was with her, and there were others enclosing them. Maella was…
Percival’s heart dropped as he finally caught sight of Ruarc’s mentor, pinioned on the end of an earthen spike. He could see bodies laid low of friends and staff. There were people down there he had commiserated over coffee just that morning on having to put so much work into this festival. Where was Ruarc? Where was Jane? Why were there still people here if there were supposed to be portals?
The Alchemist could feel a subtle ticking in the back of his mind. Time was slowly running out. He had a student on the ship, and she needed to be far away from this place. His siblings were on the ground, threatened to be overrun.
What if Maella was still alive? Brenya? He could see Brenya on the ground, but she wasn’t moving.
Triage your thoughts, Percy.
They were closing on his sisters, they were focused on his sisters. Disrupt the plan. Cause chaos. Observe.
“Miyu! That one in the back is casting a spell. He’s drawing something up,” Percival brought the Everlasting around, and glided back down for another pass into the field. “I’m going to sweep in low near him. I need you to hit him as hard as you’ve hit anyone in your life or this is going to be a lot worse.”
Percival pressed the engines and surged the vessel forth, “Unless you see a better target, I’m going to get you as close as I can. I’ll keep making passes, if you fly in the air, I’ll scoop you up on the ship and hide you. If we can disorient them enough, Riles’ll have a better chance against them.”
Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
"I'll make sure he doesn't finish it!" Miyuki responded, summoning two razor sharp wedges of ice that looked suspiciously like chisels or scrapers, which then dropped to the Teak deck, followed by Miyuki spinning in place several times. The sound of wood being quickly shaved off the deck was heard, and her spins complete, the ice queen had carved a magic circle on the deck, along with collected wood shavings in the two icy blades, which now came together to form a large Pykrete hammerhead, the shaft of the Arctic key being summoned from the core of her prosthetic right arm to form its handle.
"Ad Caelum" Miyuki intoned, the circle she had carved flashing for an instant and launching her swiftly into the air. Roughly at the apex of her launch, Miyuki summoned a similar circle of Ice, and performed a midair somersault to land gently upon it.
"Ad Terram" she said next, again being launched, this time at the ground toward her target at a frightening speed. She began to absorb heat from the surrounding air, and drew moisture to her back, combining the two into a steam powered jet blast to accelerate even faster as the hammer gracefully followed behind her, poised and ready to strike.
"Absoluta Nulla" She incanted last, sucking every bit of heat and as much of the corresponding mana from a roughly hundred meter radius, just before she hit the ground, the hammer now leading on a direct course toward the arcanist's head.
"Ad Caelum" Miyuki intoned, the circle she had carved flashing for an instant and launching her swiftly into the air. Roughly at the apex of her launch, Miyuki summoned a similar circle of Ice, and performed a midair somersault to land gently upon it.
"Ad Terram" she said next, again being launched, this time at the ground toward her target at a frightening speed. She began to absorb heat from the surrounding air, and drew moisture to her back, combining the two into a steam powered jet blast to accelerate even faster as the hammer gracefully followed behind her, poised and ready to strike.
"Absoluta Nulla" She incanted last, sucking every bit of heat and as much of the corresponding mana from a roughly hundred meter radius, just before she hit the ground, the hammer now leading on a direct course toward the arcanist's head.
-
Gwathdraug
- Posts: 281
- Joined: Fri Dec 24, 2010 9:48 am
Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
THIS IS NOT YOUR STAGE.
The dragon reared back on its hind legs and brought its wings in close - folding them about itself so tight that the distinction between wing and body was rendered seamless. The earth shivered and shadows danced gleefully as mana was drawn to the dragon - then, with a gust of wind, its wings spread back to their full span.
Once featureless, the wings were now crowded to bulging with tears and smiles, with laughter and frowns. Theatre masks of each myriad emotion sat as frozen expressions grown from the white wyrm's flesh.
GO.
Soundlessly the masks ripped themselves free and into the air. The cacophony of expressions swirled out and around the dragon before all stilling as one with an alarming suddenness.
SEEK.
The masks shot off in swarms of a dozen after the battlemages, the geomancer, the elementalist, the necromancer. Only the mageslayer and the ringleader were left untargeted. The pursuant emotions were silent, white voids streaking through the air until-
The skin against your hand is dry and paper thin, it shifts against bones that seem too fragile to be what they are. The only sound is that of not breathing - of the machine that struggles and compresses to do what they can no longer do. You can't help but smile and it hurts and tears at you as it catches your tears. You can't help but smile because they cannot see, but a smile is what they need to see. You grip their hand and gently cover fingers that have not moved - will not move. There is a lifetime in this hold, in this smile, in these tears.
It is warm and the darkness is absolute as you lay awake surrounded by the relentless buzz of summer cicadas. A leg is thrown over your own and it is too hot, but you still do not move - the weight makes the light graze of fingertips against your arm real. There is no time or wind here. Only the alien buzz of insects and touch so intimate that your eyes have no place alongside it. There is a lifetime between now and the sun's rise.
The laughter hits your chest and steals away your voice. You are smiling. You are laughing and there is no harmony between the two. The laughter is not a bell, or a song, but the undeniable proof of another human. It holds joy - it might have been what has always held your joy. There is nothing that could make you forget it. There is hope for a whole lifetime in this laugh.
-the jumbled assault of emotions delivered by the masks weren't heard, not in the air or in the mind, instead as the freed visages got close to their targets what was felt bubbled up through the enemy mages magic itself. The masks proximity alone beginning to drain mana from out of their bodies without yet closing the gap to cling onto their targets.
---
Riley reached a hand down into their shadow and pulled forth a black, scale covered flintlock. The construct was already wispy and beginning to unravel in their hand. The stage magician tossed the half-formed weapon to Lyra.
Lyra shifted her sword to her other hand and caught the firearm with practiced ease. The tall woman sighted upon the mageslayer as he gliding towards them and fired. Just before hitting the enchantment covered man the bullet exploded and released a fireball that sent hot air swirling through the festival grounds.
Lyra waved her hand through the wisps of shadow that was all that remained of the constructed weapon after she had fired. Her own magic dispelling the remainders and leaving her vision clear.
The dragon reared back on its hind legs and brought its wings in close - folding them about itself so tight that the distinction between wing and body was rendered seamless. The earth shivered and shadows danced gleefully as mana was drawn to the dragon - then, with a gust of wind, its wings spread back to their full span.
Once featureless, the wings were now crowded to bulging with tears and smiles, with laughter and frowns. Theatre masks of each myriad emotion sat as frozen expressions grown from the white wyrm's flesh.
GO.
Soundlessly the masks ripped themselves free and into the air. The cacophony of expressions swirled out and around the dragon before all stilling as one with an alarming suddenness.
SEEK.
The masks shot off in swarms of a dozen after the battlemages, the geomancer, the elementalist, the necromancer. Only the mageslayer and the ringleader were left untargeted. The pursuant emotions were silent, white voids streaking through the air until-
The skin against your hand is dry and paper thin, it shifts against bones that seem too fragile to be what they are. The only sound is that of not breathing - of the machine that struggles and compresses to do what they can no longer do. You can't help but smile and it hurts and tears at you as it catches your tears. You can't help but smile because they cannot see, but a smile is what they need to see. You grip their hand and gently cover fingers that have not moved - will not move. There is a lifetime in this hold, in this smile, in these tears.
It is warm and the darkness is absolute as you lay awake surrounded by the relentless buzz of summer cicadas. A leg is thrown over your own and it is too hot, but you still do not move - the weight makes the light graze of fingertips against your arm real. There is no time or wind here. Only the alien buzz of insects and touch so intimate that your eyes have no place alongside it. There is a lifetime between now and the sun's rise.
The laughter hits your chest and steals away your voice. You are smiling. You are laughing and there is no harmony between the two. The laughter is not a bell, or a song, but the undeniable proof of another human. It holds joy - it might have been what has always held your joy. There is nothing that could make you forget it. There is hope for a whole lifetime in this laugh.
-the jumbled assault of emotions delivered by the masks weren't heard, not in the air or in the mind, instead as the freed visages got close to their targets what was felt bubbled up through the enemy mages magic itself. The masks proximity alone beginning to drain mana from out of their bodies without yet closing the gap to cling onto their targets.
---
Riley reached a hand down into their shadow and pulled forth a black, scale covered flintlock. The construct was already wispy and beginning to unravel in their hand. The stage magician tossed the half-formed weapon to Lyra.
Lyra shifted her sword to her other hand and caught the firearm with practiced ease. The tall woman sighted upon the mageslayer as he gliding towards them and fired. Just before hitting the enchantment covered man the bullet exploded and released a fireball that sent hot air swirling through the festival grounds.
Lyra waved her hand through the wisps of shadow that was all that remained of the constructed weapon after she had fired. Her own magic dispelling the remainders and leaving her vision clear.
-
Mr. Blackbird Lore
- Posts: 722
- Joined: Fri Dec 31, 2010 1:48 pm
Re: Chapter 2.1: The Siege of Safeholme
Aboard the Everlasting
As Miyuki plummeted toward the astounding arcanist, two more mages ascended from the boughs of the Wilderwood. One wore only the bottom half of a dobok and a strange dark belt that Percival identified as carbon fiber studded with tungsten. Every exposed muscle was tightly corded; there was no need to touch the man to understand that he was built like steel. His companion was almost entirely hidden beneath her dark ankle length robe.
What precisely propelled them to the deck of the Everlasting was unclear. Far more obvious was that the robed woman had a staff which she was not aiming at Percival. Four rapid bursts of mana ejected from the staff, curving around sails and stays. Only then did he realize the true target was another: Tanuki. Utterly unaware and transfixed by her task, she continued to keep the ship invisible with a tranquil smile on her face.
Meanwhile, the shirtless man caught himself on the front of the airship's gunwale, one hand purposefully placed against its foremost point. The Everlasting decelerated, despite no change to its sails nor to its source of momentum.
At the Edge of the Wilderwood
The arcanist looked up toward the heavens and the Ice Queen as she began her furious descent. There was anger in his eyes that the Ice Queen had so swiftly disturbed his spell, but there was no fear of the falling hammer. The raw mana continued to coalesce in an orb, the arcanist biding his time. At the last possible moment, he thrust his collection of mana up toward the hammer and the orb rapidly dispersed to into several smaller bolts.
The hammer and magic missiles produced a thunderous crash and blinding light. A gleaming cloud of crystalline shards and steam billowed out from the impact and obscured both the arcanist and Miyuki. Moments later an expanding boundary of mana opened a gap in the shroud and a trio of mana bolts raced toward the ice elementalist, each the size of a large beach ball.
The Festival Grounds
The geomancer stirred the winds and chucked earthen shrapnel to repel the swarm of masks, but was overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. The rhythmic rise and fall of the ground beneath her faltered; she stumbled then fell to unspoiled earth. Her focus was shattered, her mind was unraveling, and her mana eked out in a steady stream.
Others fared better. The necromancer sacrificed a dozen of the souls carrying him to the masks and their hunger. He was forced to land, but was otherwise unperturbed. After a brief incantation and gesture, the vulgar sound of human softness grating against rocky roughness reached every ear. And they knew before they looked that Maella's corpse was undertaking the task of liberating itself from the geomancer's last attack.
Above and behind the reanimated corpse, a section of the manor exploded outward, strewing rubble across the yard. Through the subsequent dust cloud, a teacher's desk was fired like a projectile straight at the dragon followed by a volley of smaller student's desks. By the time the dust cleared, the attacker was no within the exposed classroom on the second floor.
The elementalist flying on funnels of flame pirouetted through the air, maintaining an unpredictable vector and scorching the masks, but temporarily removing her as a threat.
Last, but certainly not least, the mageslayer met Lyra's fireball with one gauntleted hand. The fireball was absorbed. A portion of that flame was applied to the man's straight-bladed sword; the rest was vented like so much chaff. Sensing danger from the dragon, he diverted from a direct strike to continue circling toward the dragon's rear. A slash of the sword expelled the stolen flames back to Lyra. A relatively simple thing for her to manage; he was probably testing-- or buying time.
At Flynn's Cabin
A glamored figure coaxed wards with one hand and the lock with another. Click. She smiled. Fffwip. Her smile grew as the door swung open on quiet hinges. Now for the best part.
Within the Wilderwood
Skarnir took a half-step back just in time to avoid an arrow to the knee. Looking up, he finally spotted the archer that had plagued him for the last quarter hour, retreating through the treetops. He charged on, eyes keenly surveying the unpathed underbrush for signs of a trap. He swept his axe up in an arc, deftly predicting- and deflecting- the next arrow, then leaping over its successor. Or he would have, if the arrow had followed a typical trajectory. Instead it curled upward, clipping his boot, and tripping him. The instinct for most was to try and keep their feet under them, but Skarnir was not most-- and his attacker was as swift as they were accurate. The viking dove under two more arrows, rolled, and came to his feet.
What came next was the sort of thing legends were made of-- the sort of thing that defined men like Skarnir. He spun and threw his axe with both hands. The archer's next arrow was cut from the air and there was nary enough time to loose another; the archer fled, leaping to the next tree. Surprise was plain on his face when his top half overshot the branch, and his bottom half tumbled into the bushes below. Skarnir's freshly wet axe thunked into the trunk. The vibration shook the shellshocked half-man from the tree, and he too disappeared into the brush.
With a grim smirk, Skarnir lunged two steps up the tree and ripped the weapon free. When he landed, a woman stood before him, hand outstretched. As if she had predicted precisely where he would land, his cheek fell into her caress. Fingers brushed hair back from his temple. Something was wrong.
He lashed out, but the figure was gone. Definitely wrong. A faint hum arose. And it grew with each passing second. It was the cacophony of a charging army, and it was headed his way. He prepared his axe and climbed a tree; whether he would make a tactical retreat or surprise attack would depend on the nature of his enemy. A veteran, Skarnir was prepared for many things. But he was not prepared for this.
Charging out of the Wilderwood with all their eyes fixed on him was everyone. Everyone. It was the only word that truly described the occasion. His mother and father led the pack, bloodlust and fury plain in their faces. His friends, both the living and the dead. Comrades in arms, some he remembered more by instinct than by a particular memory.
He knew at once what this was-- and he also knew of no way out except forward. Skarnir leaped from the tree and waged war against himself. He began to slay every single person he loved, liked, and respected. "It's all in my head," he reminded himself. The place stunk of wizardry, and there was something ever so slightly off about the Wilderwood that had tipped him off. "The fae," he realized, as he struck down his first mentor. The fae were no longer everywhere; he could not hear their chiming laughter nor their shrill battle cries. The death cry of his first lover was somehow shriller.
"It's all in my head!" he shouted, keen to remember that none of this was real. But the mind is where reality rests, suggested another voice. And as Skarnir did what he did best, he realized on some deeper level that this was exactly what they wanted. But he had no other option. No other path. No other strength. "Forward. To the end of this blighted curse," he urged himself. But the darkness of his imaginary deeds weighed heavy, and eventually he sank, like an armored knight in a sea of dark thoughts.
And then, blessedly, his thoughts were silenced. It was a great relief from the burden of his own mind. So it was easy to accept the yoke of another, much larger mind. A yoke that promised silence and freedom from the dark thoughts. Somewhere deep within, a small place desperately wished to be free- to fight this great psychic presence. But it was so small just then. So small.
The psychic smiled and let her hand fall away. Go in glory, she commanded Skarnir's mind. The warrior nodded, spun, and raced toward the sounds of battle-- toward glory.
As Miyuki plummeted toward the astounding arcanist, two more mages ascended from the boughs of the Wilderwood. One wore only the bottom half of a dobok and a strange dark belt that Percival identified as carbon fiber studded with tungsten. Every exposed muscle was tightly corded; there was no need to touch the man to understand that he was built like steel. His companion was almost entirely hidden beneath her dark ankle length robe.
What precisely propelled them to the deck of the Everlasting was unclear. Far more obvious was that the robed woman had a staff which she was not aiming at Percival. Four rapid bursts of mana ejected from the staff, curving around sails and stays. Only then did he realize the true target was another: Tanuki. Utterly unaware and transfixed by her task, she continued to keep the ship invisible with a tranquil smile on her face.
Meanwhile, the shirtless man caught himself on the front of the airship's gunwale, one hand purposefully placed against its foremost point. The Everlasting decelerated, despite no change to its sails nor to its source of momentum.
At the Edge of the Wilderwood
The arcanist looked up toward the heavens and the Ice Queen as she began her furious descent. There was anger in his eyes that the Ice Queen had so swiftly disturbed his spell, but there was no fear of the falling hammer. The raw mana continued to coalesce in an orb, the arcanist biding his time. At the last possible moment, he thrust his collection of mana up toward the hammer and the orb rapidly dispersed to into several smaller bolts.
The hammer and magic missiles produced a thunderous crash and blinding light. A gleaming cloud of crystalline shards and steam billowed out from the impact and obscured both the arcanist and Miyuki. Moments later an expanding boundary of mana opened a gap in the shroud and a trio of mana bolts raced toward the ice elementalist, each the size of a large beach ball.
The Festival Grounds
The geomancer stirred the winds and chucked earthen shrapnel to repel the swarm of masks, but was overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. The rhythmic rise and fall of the ground beneath her faltered; she stumbled then fell to unspoiled earth. Her focus was shattered, her mind was unraveling, and her mana eked out in a steady stream.
Others fared better. The necromancer sacrificed a dozen of the souls carrying him to the masks and their hunger. He was forced to land, but was otherwise unperturbed. After a brief incantation and gesture, the vulgar sound of human softness grating against rocky roughness reached every ear. And they knew before they looked that Maella's corpse was undertaking the task of liberating itself from the geomancer's last attack.
Above and behind the reanimated corpse, a section of the manor exploded outward, strewing rubble across the yard. Through the subsequent dust cloud, a teacher's desk was fired like a projectile straight at the dragon followed by a volley of smaller student's desks. By the time the dust cleared, the attacker was no within the exposed classroom on the second floor.
The elementalist flying on funnels of flame pirouetted through the air, maintaining an unpredictable vector and scorching the masks, but temporarily removing her as a threat.
Last, but certainly not least, the mageslayer met Lyra's fireball with one gauntleted hand. The fireball was absorbed. A portion of that flame was applied to the man's straight-bladed sword; the rest was vented like so much chaff. Sensing danger from the dragon, he diverted from a direct strike to continue circling toward the dragon's rear. A slash of the sword expelled the stolen flames back to Lyra. A relatively simple thing for her to manage; he was probably testing-- or buying time.
At Flynn's Cabin
A glamored figure coaxed wards with one hand and the lock with another. Click. She smiled. Fffwip. Her smile grew as the door swung open on quiet hinges. Now for the best part.
Within the Wilderwood
Skarnir took a half-step back just in time to avoid an arrow to the knee. Looking up, he finally spotted the archer that had plagued him for the last quarter hour, retreating through the treetops. He charged on, eyes keenly surveying the unpathed underbrush for signs of a trap. He swept his axe up in an arc, deftly predicting- and deflecting- the next arrow, then leaping over its successor. Or he would have, if the arrow had followed a typical trajectory. Instead it curled upward, clipping his boot, and tripping him. The instinct for most was to try and keep their feet under them, but Skarnir was not most-- and his attacker was as swift as they were accurate. The viking dove under two more arrows, rolled, and came to his feet.
What came next was the sort of thing legends were made of-- the sort of thing that defined men like Skarnir. He spun and threw his axe with both hands. The archer's next arrow was cut from the air and there was nary enough time to loose another; the archer fled, leaping to the next tree. Surprise was plain on his face when his top half overshot the branch, and his bottom half tumbled into the bushes below. Skarnir's freshly wet axe thunked into the trunk. The vibration shook the shellshocked half-man from the tree, and he too disappeared into the brush.
With a grim smirk, Skarnir lunged two steps up the tree and ripped the weapon free. When he landed, a woman stood before him, hand outstretched. As if she had predicted precisely where he would land, his cheek fell into her caress. Fingers brushed hair back from his temple. Something was wrong.
He lashed out, but the figure was gone. Definitely wrong. A faint hum arose. And it grew with each passing second. It was the cacophony of a charging army, and it was headed his way. He prepared his axe and climbed a tree; whether he would make a tactical retreat or surprise attack would depend on the nature of his enemy. A veteran, Skarnir was prepared for many things. But he was not prepared for this.
Charging out of the Wilderwood with all their eyes fixed on him was everyone. Everyone. It was the only word that truly described the occasion. His mother and father led the pack, bloodlust and fury plain in their faces. His friends, both the living and the dead. Comrades in arms, some he remembered more by instinct than by a particular memory.
He knew at once what this was-- and he also knew of no way out except forward. Skarnir leaped from the tree and waged war against himself. He began to slay every single person he loved, liked, and respected. "It's all in my head," he reminded himself. The place stunk of wizardry, and there was something ever so slightly off about the Wilderwood that had tipped him off. "The fae," he realized, as he struck down his first mentor. The fae were no longer everywhere; he could not hear their chiming laughter nor their shrill battle cries. The death cry of his first lover was somehow shriller.
"It's all in my head!" he shouted, keen to remember that none of this was real. But the mind is where reality rests, suggested another voice. And as Skarnir did what he did best, he realized on some deeper level that this was exactly what they wanted. But he had no other option. No other path. No other strength. "Forward. To the end of this blighted curse," he urged himself. But the darkness of his imaginary deeds weighed heavy, and eventually he sank, like an armored knight in a sea of dark thoughts.
And then, blessedly, his thoughts were silenced. It was a great relief from the burden of his own mind. So it was easy to accept the yoke of another, much larger mind. A yoke that promised silence and freedom from the dark thoughts. Somewhere deep within, a small place desperately wished to be free- to fight this great psychic presence. But it was so small just then. So small.
The psychic smiled and let her hand fall away. Go in glory, she commanded Skarnir's mind. The warrior nodded, spun, and raced toward the sounds of battle-- toward glory.