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Based on some fine intelligence and hard work by the proud knights of the land, a fellow Knight of lesser means is not dead or a mindless drone to King Rat. Be assured Sir Gereint of the Old Sea Wolf tavern will have words for a man who dares to infiltrate his headquarters of information with a good man turned into a helpless drone bending to another's will. So be it, the party setting forth from the tavern includes the Summer Knight, Sir Gareth, and Sir Agravaine of the mighty blue feather set forth to a specific location on the riverside docks. The warehouse in question looks like every other warehouse, one that's partly constructed of timber and of mortared rock, thrown together with little care about the contents. Long and low, it resembles nothing so much as a higgledy-piggledy box perched on the water's edge, a plank quay stirring at a drunken angle for some poor ferry to land at. No river boat on the Esk wants to go near it. The other buildings are close and tight around it, leaving very little space to approach, and the low-lying doors require stooping to get inside. Or, for the Summer Knight? Crawling on his hands and knees. The docks are constantly active with people and loaded with suspicious barrels probably not full of treasure or forgotten +3 weapons.
*
Agravaine is making efforts. Its so weird. He's getting closer and there's this barrel in a corner between two cramped warehouses. Its all alone. It seems…brittle, too. He just finds that he can't resist after a certain few moments. He lofts his sword and comes smashing down on it. It falls to pieces for practically no reason and inside he finds an apple. He totally takes the apple, despite the dubious neighborhood. None of the workers repremand him for smashing the barrel, or for taking the apple. "So…Sir Summers first, and the rest of us follow?"
*
For most of this investigation, Sir Summers has been absent. He has been approaching this as an independent, as he is want to do, and the fact he is coming to the same location at the same time is a manner of communication as opposed to any want or need to be working with the others. His massive horse pads lazily down the relatively narrow streets, a short distance now from the target. Finding an alley big enough to accomodate him, he slips it inside with much hesitation and neighs. Dismounting, there's a lot of whining coming from within a pile of cloth. A large hand settles atop the pup, and a shush. "Stay." he states, simply. Over his massive armor he wears a simple, ratty green cloak. Large enough to swathe all about him, hood drawn up, making his size primarily be what causes him to stand out. With a slow trod, he begins making his way on foot to the supposed souce of King Rat…
*
A tall red hound trots down one of the alleyways, avoiding any puddles and piles of muck that no street sweeper in Caerleon is responsible for. This means sometimes climbing over barrels, but the hound trots along, tail bashing unwanted crates out of the way, floppy ears perked.
*
A diminutive young woman is currently roaming the docks on some sort of a task or another. Blonde, pale but grubby enough it's hard to tell, dressed in the usual array of rough homespun with some random pouches and a rough rope belt tied about her waist. She seems to be looing for something, though just what it could be is not particularly obvious. This one is neither armed nor armoured. She is, however, observant. Blue eyes stare at the procession of Knights incoming. Walk, do not run, to the nearest warehouse. Best not to be too obvious. Just obvious enough. Knights mean trouble, after all.
*
Sir Gareth was able to get his armor before joining the others at the tavern, and currently stands with them, wearing a cloak to try to conceal his martial state. "By all means," he says in agreement with Agravaine. The Summer knight is big enough that he might intimidate them into giving up without trouble. Yeah. Right. He grimaces as sensitive nostrils bring very unpleasant smells from the river.
*
A little bluebird also told him that he might be needed down at the docks, and so, with mandolin conspicuously absent and a rather drab cloak borrowed with deep hood to hide his face, the Pencerdd makes his way down. Along the way, he wonders…precisely what would he be needed for down there? The dock-workers appreciate a song every once and a while, this is true, but…hmm.
Regardless, with an ability to move at a deliberate speed (and an effort to mimick a bit of a shamble, because no Master Bardd really shows a limp — too proud), he threads his way through the outskirts of the river-wharf.
At a distance, the presence of a feather from a helm — oh good, Agravaine's here, he's predictably helpful. Still, how on earth did a conversation with Sir Geraint lead to the docks? Bardd's got some digging to do.
But what is this…? Cue the curling of a smile with a rather toothy edge. He recognizes that cloak, thread-worn in places, and so too the sheer height of the Knight who wears it. With a few simple changes in direction, he brings himself to walk parallel to the man. His voice is thrown across the distance of about two arm's lengths.
"The Summer Knight…and I wondered why I was needed. What have you sniffed out now, good sir, within the rank of the river?" Ah, there's sir Gareth too, very good. His sharp eyes pick out the retreat of one of the young locals and he sighs. "And look, you're scaring the children again. Honestly, try smiling sometimes."
*
Rain continues to fall in a spatter of misery, making it very difficult to avoid getting mucky. The docks are not paved. Sailors and labourers looking for a quick coin to drown their sorrows meander around, some hauling things, and some slouching lazily.
*
Maximus eyes the waif girl thoughtfully. "What if we use the girl to go in there first. A peasant. They will do anything for a coin." He shifts his junk in his suit. He can't fight properly if his codpiece isn't adjusted proper.
*
The girl in question is staring at Maximus like he might have just said they should roast her on a spit for strength and virility before charging into battle. She looks around slowly and then steps forward. A quavering voice follows. "M-me, mi'lord." A beat. "Let me see the coins." Suddenly there's a judicious quality as she crosses her arms over her chest. Cold stare. "No one'll see me… I-if. That's what you want? But none of them small coins neither. You have silver." Knights always have silver. Right?
*
A somewhat exasperated glance is given to the bard. "You." he grunts. Ah, the bard. They know each other, the Summer Knight hailing from the queen's highest court in any official capacity. In practice it's a much different thing, however, which is why the two have never got around. Most treat Nathan with fear, awe, and reverence, but not this aggravating bard. "The Rat King is inside." he comments, as he comes to a stop before the warehouse. "I am certain of it." No heed paid to the girl who flees before him. "Stand back." he offers nobody in particular. All those near the front of the squat densely packed building, really.
He then draws out a sword. From the hilt it seemed mundane, but the blade is a strange black steel, seeming to shimmer oddly. Runes are inscribed along it. He's always been known as the Knight of Two Swords, but this is the first time anyone present has seem him draw it. Hefting it up, blade pointing towards his feet, a strange energy seems to build. Shadows draw towards him and darken. The air grows cold, and the very stars in the sky dim. The keenest ears might hear faint whispers, as if in a language that can be understood but not quite made out.
Nathan's bad eye snaps open. It glows black, as thick lines of color like ink bleed through his rugged skin in all directions. The ground beneath him shatters, sending shards in all directions violently. And then, it is like an unseen hand impacts the front of the warehouse. The damage is catastrophic. The shoddy structure is crushed inwards, sending wood and stone reinforcement spiraling outwards. Still that great wall of scarcely percieved power rolls forward another foot, and when it stops, the entire front of the warehouse erupts outwards in a tidal wave of rubble.
A few moments later, the street is full of the remnants of the building's face. The multiple stories exposed, and the outer wall now completely absent to show the guts of the building. To call it an attack of surprise is likely an understatement. "TO ARMS."
*
Timber crashes to the ground in a loud serenade of cracked and snapping wood. A beam broken in two smashes into the dirt floor, pulverising a perfectly innocent crate full of sand that now spills out. An unlit lantern hangs drunkenly and smashes onto the ground, and deeper in, it sounds like other cheap breakable wares suffer their fates thus. The hole where the doors used to be encompasses a space about seven feet tall and eight or so wide, minus the huge jagged teeth of wood remaining. The front right corner of the building slumps away into the River Esk, taking out the terrible quay with it. Part of the roof collapses down, impeding easy walking. Several dozen barrels go rolling past in various stages of disrepair, obviously none full of anything particularly heavy. Or anything at all. Cheap ale assaults the air and Sir Gareth's sensitive nose suffers from the stench. That or he's a prude because he turns in an effort not to retch.
Naturally there are some shouts, from dock workers, from a ferryman, from someone probably inside the building. Or several. Shuffling around is hard to hear through the vibrating of one's eardrums, but the effect works. Now if only the building weren't also somehow stinking of smoke.
*
"I trust that rabid nose of yours, good Knight." Nothing like the minor inflection of disdain on the bestowment of said title.
Taliesin, in his drab cloak, reaches the little gathering in time to hear Agravaine's musings on borrowing the locals. His eyes then shift to the little girl, halted by the lure of a few silver coins, and then narrow. "Agravaine, let's not tease the poor thing with — stand back? Summers, what are you doing?" Being Mystically-inclined, he recognizes an artifact of power anywhere and his brows slowly rise as he pieces together a suspicion as just precisely what the Summer Knight might be up to.
Self-preservation wins out over stubborn pride and the Pencerdd is the quickest to draw back away from the building. After all, he has no metallic armor; simply the supple leather in near-perse-blue hidden away beneath ragged wool. No use to suffer the shards of capricious Fate…as the Summer Knight basically disintegrates the front of the warehouse.
The Master Bardd turns back around after jilting up a shoulder in gut reaction to protect his head, he stares. "To arms?! Seven hells, all we need are trumpets now! You are insufferable!!!" To one inclined to subtlety, this is a disaster. And the building's on fire.
*
The trotting dog sniffs at the air with a big brown nose, and the tail thumping gets noisier. Then some vast explosion rips off the face of a monster building, and it whines like a tea kettle. Those ungainly large paws give off surprisingly little sound for something so tall and sinewy. Thumpthumpthump, goes the tail, staving in a crate, and it sheds a few splinters for its trouble as it goes trotting around another building shaken a bit off its foundation. Thump thump thump.
*
Agravaine is Aggravated. He stares at the Summer Knight, with his stupid magical sword and his hulking presence, and his cool, black sword, and if the Summer Knight really CAN sense sin, then he can sense a lot of it from Agravaine as jealousy wells up and mixes with forbidden attraction and there's some violence floating around in there too. The outward reaction to it though, is to touch the top of his helm and then slam it down to protect his face with a SHUCK sound of metal finding its place. It manages to SOUND annoyed by the magnificence. Then there is the ring of steel as he draws out his own more appropriately-sized sword…for his frame anyway…in his right hand and hoists his shield in front of him…the lion on the front declaring a kinship with royalty. He doesn't even LOOK at Taliesin, or the waif, before he dismisses her with a muttered, "/Nevermind/."
Agravaine follows the larger knight into the building, steel eyes shifting around the treacherous location for pitfalls so that he can not warn the Summer Knight about them, out of petty spite.
*
The waif whines, "You still owe me four copper chits an' a silver or I'm telling the watch!"
*
Agravaine tries to mind control her to punch herself in her own face.
*
"Oww!" the waif's howl is met with a whine from a rather sympathetic pup.
*
There's talk of getting someone to get inside quietly, which Gareth isn't opposed to. He looks the girl over curiously and evaluatingly, eyebrows going up at how quickly she gets calculating and cold. Aaaaaand then Summers knocks on the front door. "Well. Do you think they know we're here now?" He holds back a moment, giving the first two a chance to get in, then follows so as to try to surprise anyone jumping them from behind. Before he goes in, though, he'll look at the waif. "My dear, the watch answers to us. And, uhm, stop hitting yourself."
In he goes…only for the floor to collapse under him. "Raww!" he exclaims as he falls, somehow managing to land on his feet.
*
The floorboards give way. Now on its own this might not be problematic but a great mouth opens in the floor as those weakened slats crash way. And their hinges crash way. And why are there hinges on the floor? Another panel gives out and that takes Sir Gareth and nearest companions straight out of the running. Dust flies into the air, a weird kind of floury dust that coats those who are nearby. Thus do Agravaine and Tywyll end up speckled in white. The Summer Knight may as well.
Gareth lands nimbly. No telling how Taliesin does, but they fall into a room coated in chalky white, burlap sacks lying around, and a fair few candles, apparently fresh, stuck to ledges on the rough, rocky wall. Only Gareth has the vision enough to see that the passage slinks along about ten feet and ends in a door.
*
Thus chastened the waif disappears from sight with a shout of, "Watch'll be here any second, you great big oaf! They'll show you. Might send the Lady out this way an' you'll be sorry." The girl stepped into a shadowy corner and then the pitter patter of feet sounded her retreat. Unbeknownst to anyone the urchin makes her way into the building. Silent and invisible no enemy could possibly strike out at her. Which is why, as she observes the two people inside the warehouse from a place behind the barrels…
A falling ceiling beam strikes the girl in the back and threatens to pin her to the floor. Now Tywyll screams, and it's the girlish voice of someone surprised and in danger. Anyone who comes to investigate would find a bleeding blonde haired urchin… And then there are spikes of light absorbing blackness sprouting form the ground. With a howl Tywyll tears the beam to shreds, spreading her arms wide to mimic the array of five shards of darkness springing from the ground to defend her. Now she's getting to her feet. Bloody. Pissed off.
*
Another beam crashes to the floor in segments, this time.
*
The sword is sheathed after the assault takes place. A rather large chunk of sheer stone impacts Nathan's left shoulder, one that could be fatal for someone of normal stature. Even a knight in armor might be floored and wounded beneath. Yet to him, it seems to shatter, ricocheting off as if striking the face of a mountain. Nathan's prowess in battle is a thing of legend, because only peasants have witnessed it. They are prone to exaggerations and boistering, but even in the courts, perhaps the bard can only theorize at his true capabilities.
He then marches forward through the open face of the building, heading towards the fallen barrels as cheap alcohol wafts about his feet. Flour disperses down and seems to cover him, causing no particular pause beyond a lick of his lips to assess it's flavor. Right now, his cursed taint is slowly receeding, assessing the interior for any movement. The enemy should be staggered and surprised. Mayhaps they already knew they were here, and placed traps or ambush. That would be sensible. They could not, however, have expected their building to be rippled in half and the Cursed Knight to stride in…!!
*
More of the river Esk's mucky water flows in through the collapsed left side of the place. The smell of burning grows somewhat stronger, and then the patter of feet adds a retreating note around the external shouts of highly alarmed peasants, who are generally much too smart to engage knights. Or people in warehouses, for that matter. Several may be inclined to watch from the safety of their carts and piles of very flammable boxes.
*
On the tail of Sir Gareth strides Taliesin, glowering up a storm. Someone's got to be the intelligent speaker here, what with all the brawn leading the charge. Between the smoke from places and this weird gauzy cloud in the air, how in the seven hells are they supposed to see —
There's nothing like having the rug pulled out from beneath you — or the weakened timbers of flooring collapse. With a choked shout, he too disappears down, down into the near-darkness of a cellar of sorts. A bag of flour took the brunt of his landing, but the worst thing about the ground wheat is that it gives only so much.
Thus, with a series of coughs, the Master Bardd has to find air as he rolls off the smushed sacks, tremble-kneed with adrenaline and looking rather ghostly in the end.
"S-Sir Gareth?" Another hacking cough and he spits off to one side, smacking his lips. It's hazy in here now too with displaced…flour. "I can — *cough* — barely see anything. If that's you, d-d — *hack* — do a Bardd a favor and find the nearest door?"
*
The hound decides this is a fine moment to sit in the dirt amidst the wreckage of the wood. Cocking its head leave a red ear perked, the other one emblazoned with a white star swaying slightly. Spotted paws come together and its tail wags hopefully. No one comes by to feed it or pet it.
*
"I'm here," Gareth tells Taliesin, relieved to hear the Bardd. He starts to try to get flour off his armor, but soon gives it up as a lost cause, and continues as a white knight. "There's a hallway ahead of us, a door behind it. Give me your hand," he says, stepping to Taliesin, ready to lift him to his feet. "I'll lead the way, just listen for my voice. Or armor. Or I could whistle, I suppose," he says as he leads the way to the door. "Perhaps I should bring bagpipes with me in the future."
*
Agravaine is managing to stand on the one spot in this hellhole that isn't currently trapped or getting sucked into the river. "Bard! Sir Gareth?" Smattered with white is better than being smattered with blood. "This whole area is trapped. Let me cross first…you're so heavy you'll set everything off. Can you get out of there?"
*
The bloody and bloody-minded Tywyll, illuminated in flames and now garbed in shadows that are reminiscent of her usual attire- black cloak, black clothes, though these shimmer and flicker in the light. This is a girl, formerly thought an urchin, who emerges from the supprot beams and stalks toward where the floor is collapsing, her eyes nearly glowing in amethyst from her place among the shadows. They are alive around her, hinting at others who might follow and violent purpose. Waiting for her to do something. Instead of Tywyll walking outside the light the darkness reaches toward her, albeit to be banished by bright lights.
The girl reaches the hole in the floor and stares down at it, a small figure adumbrated against the orange glow of a burning building. "Taliesin! A sight for sore eyes, then. What is this nonsense?" The girl jumps and as she falls the shadows catch her. She alights easily on the cellar floor. "Who on earth was that who decided to set the whole place alight? I thought Agravaine had a promising notion, actually…"
*
A number of people appear to be exploring beneath, whether intentionally or otherwise. Nathan continues forward, somewhat surprised to see a lack of at least pedestrian guards. Is this truly where the Rat King himself stands? Not so much as a wall of bodies to slow them down? Just… flour, and cheap booze? This stinks of something strange. When the knight behind speaks, his mind resonates… well. It feels like 'truth' is not possible for him, but as close to such as he can manage, tainted or otherwise. "Fine." he offers, coming to a stop and staring at the opposing wall. He'd destroy it too, but is still recovering from the explosive display at the forefront at the moment…
*
Agravaine clatters past Nathan and tries to navigate the failing room both safely and swiftly. He will noticably NOT grab anything at all to help himself. No ropes, no beams, nothing. He just steps very carefully, sword and shield like the balance pole of an acrobat.
*
Downstairs, with its rough edged stones and dirt floor, acts as a cellar of sorts. No helpful stairs await those who want to leave. Sacks of torn open white flour, very fancy, continue to lace the air in dust. The door that Sir Gareth opens reveals a corridor lined in several shoddy wooden racks that probably contained sacks at one point or another, but there are none there now. Just a boring old barrel impeding their way, the lid nailed shut. A few more lie in a corner before the hallway jogs sharply right at a ninety degree angle.
More important, though, is that door opening. It swings open. A volley of bolts come flying out of a rigged apparatus of some kind that rests about chest high, connected by pulleys and ropes. Gareth takes a shot right to the chest, and the bolt stays firmly nestled. Several others go spraying all over the place like Nathan Summers playing darts, avoiding the shadow spymistress and the floofy bard.
*
Maximus is trying to reach a doorway away from the chaos that may lead to areas that are used, and thus not trapped!
*
Grabbing Gareth's sturdy hand, he's pulled to his feet and coughs a few more times. "I'll follow you. Can't see a d — *cough* — damn thing," he manages, waving airbourne flour away from his face. Above him, the retreating sound of footsteps reach his ears and still the random heavy thuds of falling beams. Gods below, they have to get out of here somehow.
Agravaine's voice reaches him too and he peers up towards the hole in the floor, proof of their gravity-empowered demise. "We're trying, don't come too close! R-rott — *coughCOUGH* — rotten floorboards might give way. Armor," he adds shortly on the heels of another cough. Damnit, his voice box is basically ruined, how's a Bardd supposed to sing…or cast?
The arrival of a certain blonde Spymistress has Taliesin retreating back to nearly bump into Sir Gareth; after all, he doesn't have the ability to see clearly in the near darkness and the haze of white dust isn't helping. However, he recognizes her voice and sighs, stirring up the settling cloud. "Oh, gods, just you, Tywyll. Don't think to tell anyone about this, they'll never believe you." He attempts to brush off an errant spot of flour on his doublet, but it's useless. Stuck as a Ban-Sidhe then, it seems. "Wait, the building's on fire?" The Master Bardd's eyes go wide. "Screw me sideways, we have to get OUT of here! Gareth, where is that door?!" He claps a hand solidly on the Knight's shoulder to play Follow the Leader Out of the Conflagration Pit.
Luckily for him, he's got the Knight in front of him when that door opens. The Bardd can duck with the unfortunate man in front of him. He didn't miss the clang of impact amidst the thrumming thwifts of other projectiles. "Gareth!" Is the Knight wounded?!
*
"What're you thinking? Should we go in?" Yes, the city watch have shown up. A man scratches his jaw. "Looks real unsafe."
"Go get a pole," says the other guardsman, sighing. "You lot, get back to work in the name of the Queen! There'll be no gawping about, you lazy curs."
The hound turns its nose in the watchmen's direction.
"I used to have a hound like you, once, before I took an arrow to the knee."
"Oh, have on about it, not that bloody story again. I'll get the damn pole myself."
*
Gareth pauses at the door, taking a listen before he opens it. There's an odd, seemingly distant clicking sound, but he doesn't think anything of it. Reading his sword, he opens the door…and gets showered with crossbow bolts. Oh. So -that's- what that sound was. Well. Whaddya know? "Dammit," he says, staggering backwards. "Door's right here. I disarmed the trap," he says, staying to sway. "I think it might be poisoned."
*
"Bard, is there anything you can do for him?" Tywyll calls in a tight voice, her expression a wide-eyed stare as she watches the door. It's impossible to tell, of course, beneath that half-face shadow black mask, and the shadows garbing her form. One cannot even see the flour that is coating her. Like everyone else. It itches but there is no time for dealing with it.
The tiny blonde goes forward toward the door, careful to stand so that a simple step will put the door itself between her and the opening. Her footsteps are silent against the cold floor ."It seems we're in the right place," she breathes then. "I'll go up ahead and see what I can find. Try to- keep him safe…" Shaking her head slowly Tywyll starts forward into the darkened passage up ahead.
*
CLUNK! A form lands behind Taliesen and Tailwind. Its the knight with the blue feather. A second ago, he had decided that the only place not trapped…is down in the trap. So, he guessed where a crossbeam might be under those rotten boards, and jumped down, declaring, "Lo. Its just one big trap up there. Lets keep moving." He knits his brows at the black-faced one. "Where did you come from?"
*
To Sir Summers it would look like Max crosses a considerable portion of the room, then shakes his head and jumps down into the trap on purpose.
*
Moving forward through the doorway Tywyll keeps to the wall for now. She uses her slight height, creeping just in case she might be seen. Those who stalk the darkness know too well that in the shadows are monsters. "…Well, I found the crossbow," the girl is musing, to those behind her. So much for being unheard. She's still terribly hard to see. "And more barrels. I should open one up." A shadowy knife appears as Tywyll confronts one of the barrels. A poke or two should help open it up.
*
Something grows in Nathan's mind like a haze. Whispers creeping like rodents in the edges of his mind. He has an incredible will; he has to. Grasping his cursed sword, the intended fate was for him to immediately become a monster. To become a beast, a demon, that feasts on the souls of humanity. He has delayed that for long years… and this insidious, twisted voice bypasses the strange gifts he always had. Telepathy might be the wrong word. Perhaps it is, were he a man who understood his powerful gift. "…" His head slowly shakes, before looking upon Maximus. His voice seems to come from a distance now. He sees in his aura. Peers in his mind. A sea of moans, grips, confusion, lust. Evil. Sin. Worse than the bandits he slays, motivated only by greed and personal empowerment. A moment after Agravaine jumps down, the Summer Knight impacts right behind, shaking the area. He might have time to glance around, before his grand metal arm thrusts out to try and catch the other by the throat in a crushing grip. His voice is strange, and warped. "SINNER…" he growls, blackness glowing bright in his torn eye as it spreads like ichor across his face unchecked. His free hand grasps the hilt of his blade, rasping it out slowly.
*
Gareth's breathing begins to sound incredibly loud in his ears. Funny, he can hear his heartbeat, also. How unusual, that is. Labump. Labump. Almost soothing, really. Comforting. Despite the fact that, well, someone tried to kill him. Tried. To. Kill. Him. How…how dare they! How dare they try to kill him! This will not stand! Gareth straigtens up, pushing away from the door frame and lifts his sword, as there's two crashes that are heard over his heartbeat. Ahha! Who—-There! "RAAAWWRR!" Gareth roars thoroughly inhumanly, leaping at Summers and slashing mightily with his sword. "FIEND!"
*
A brilliant ball of illumination sparks from nothingness, carrying an incandescence that reveals just how dusty the cellar is. Any sort of combat contributes to the fine white flour covering anything, whereas the bard takes his chances by strategically withdrawing to plot another action.
*
All the knights Agravainr hangs out with couldnt exactly be called pure. Lancelot, just…rife with sin these days. Its rare for him to come across a knight that isnt abusing the general populace under the umbrella of being a privledged class. Prima Nocta and all that! So, he doesnt even blink when there's a clunk behind him and a riteous yell of sinner. Maybe he just thinks thats the Summer Knight's battle cry. His body isnt braced in any way for expecting an attack from behind and Cable is able to grab him by the neck and yank him right off his feet. "Wha!!" he yells in sudden distress, his blue feather sticking straight up with the sudden movement. His shield drops and so does his sword, the change in his direction so abrupt! Thankfull hes made of tougher stuff than the usual human and his neck doesnt snap. But his position is not great! "Unhand me!!"
*
Tywyll is, it seems, as yet unaware of what is occurring a room away. She takes a deep breath as she is pulling he barrel open. "Pipes…? What?" The vexation is quite evident in the woman's voice. She throws up her hands and calls out, "If for once we could find the target of our quarry and not just some pointless drivel." She is about to her knife through the bagpipe when the commotion reaches a somewhat fevered pitch behind her. So it is that an irritated Tywyll stampedes into the room to the tune of a massive, slightly off-key blast of bagpipes nearly her own size. "ENOUGH!"
*
A spluttering noise of a constipated goat echoes out around the chaos, a most singular note, supposing said creature were being stepped on by a giant.
*
Nathan seems to be simmering with a strange energy. To any with a magical inclination, it is dark. Twisted, Pure, utter evil and destruction. Yet within it, like a solid core, the Summer Knight himself. Twisting something that it is not into what he desires it to be. He has kept his curse under wraps primarily, but now… he wears it on his sleeve, and exposes himself for the potential threat he is. Gareth strides forward to attack, and that black eye twists to stare at him. It would be like suddenly moving through molasses; gradually the sharp, brutal motion becomes slower and slower, some unseen shimmering force interrupting his attempt. The blade continues to go towards Nathan, but with harmless speed. "…You are pure." he finally growls. "Begone." And then a sudden eruption, to hurl Gareth back into the main room with surprising if harmless force. And then attention returns to Maximus, twisting to /slam/ him into the adjacent wall hard enough to break a support, and then drop him upon the ground to finish drawing his sword. "Have you any last words…?!"
*
Even the sound of bagpipes isn't enough to calm Gareth's rage. He strains mightily against Nathan's power, moving with strength both inhuman and insufficient. His sword quivers as he struggles to push harder with it, to cat, and then he's tossed away as if but a puppy. Or perhaps a kitten is more appropriate, as he once again lands on his feet. "Damn you!" he snarls as he charges Nathan again.
*
The werelight only does so much. Sure, the illumination might have made the clashing knights pause for all of a breath, but chaos continues to ensue. He flinches for the sudden appearance of Tywyll from the darkness and her completely random accouterment of bagpipes. The sad little 'blart' of sound is a credible attempt by anyone unfamiliar with the tricky instrument. He makes a mental note to add this into the next ditty he composes about the Spymistress (he'll be nice…kind of…maybe a joke or two about blowing and pipes and…well, you get the gist) even as the kerfuffle increases by another notch.
"Godsdammit, this is out of hand!" He steps in front of Tywyll, nobly placing himself between her and any projectiles flying towards them. See, man can think beyond himself.
If any of them haven't seen the Pencerdd in full Sorcerous mode, now's the time. The scarlet-cloth hood seems to gain excess volume and spread behind his back; he visibly shines around the edges of his person, no trick of the spell-light, and his booted feet leave the flour-coated floor as the cyclonic effect of displaced energy blows back the haze to the walls. In the doorway, with mudras formed and held before his sternum, it's clear that Taliesin means business. Thus, he gets poetic…and Mystical.
"Lady Bright in vaultless blue,
Hear my call and answer true:
Knight of Summer, Knight of Plume,
Knight of Tiger, grant space assumed!"
The fracturing of mudras, with fingers flicked outwards, sending a spiraling arc of innumerable thin golden strands out towards the combatants. If successful, they wend about whomever is still threatening bodily harm and rudely separates them with loops about wrists, waists, ankles, you name it. The whole point is to manage this madness and prevent unnecessary bloodshed.
*
Those strands have their own tensile strength that picks up resonance reasonably well. They vibrate a tiny bit of their own accord, though any struggles of the various warriors in question undoubtedly snarl them up or make them shake the harder. But those conduits shake a little further as a dog starts to bay.
It's not the annoying bark of a mongrel cur, or the yipyap of a lady's useless footstool with legs. This be the trumpeting howl of a barrel chested beast, a rather big one. The note starts out fairly low as the kingdom's archbeagle thumps its tail and calls. "AROooOOOOOOooOOOoOooOoo."
What kind of set of lungs does that dog have? One that sustain a low pitched, rumbling baying howl for about three minutes flat.
*
Agravaine groans and his metal breastplate dents some. Definitely scratched. He's grateful for having the helm down, so that they can't SEE the general distress in his eyes. He's definitely not the one fighting against. He's fighting FOR. For his own life right now. He's not going to be killed by a fellow knight. He slams his gauntlet on the ground and triggering a blade to pop out with a click and a spring sound. He ALSO lashes out with his mind, trying to insiduously insert his own will in there with whatever else is inside the Summer Knight, because he has no reason to believe the man could resist it. Its not telepathy. He gains no knowledge of the other person. It is an exercise of will as well, and a brutal, gutteral sort of attack to simply…block…everything. Its temporary amnesia, if it even succeeds, but it should stop the assault if it does. "Yes." Dramatic pause. "Fuck you!" He does not resist the tendrils from Taliesin, though he is prepared if they don't hold Summers.
*
Nyx watches as the chaos continues in spite of her attempts to play the bagpipe and snarls, shaking her head. Even as Taliesin places himself between her and th erest of the room she throws the bagpipe aside. As it flies through the air a spike made entirely of the inky blackness surrounding them spears the instrument, pinning it to a wall.
"Perhaps that will help- I don't have a good way to *restrain our companions*." The glare that accompanies this pronouncement would thoroughly emaciate the willpower of an ordinary person coming face to face with the Mistress of Shadows. These people here likely ignore her entirely for the moment. For now Tywyll seems to be at a loss as to what to do. So… She waits. Watches. And allows Taliesin to shield her delicate form. It's rather unlike Tywyll… So perhaps she feels helpless to intervene.
*
The blade is hefted out, gleaming black once more. There's probably few artifacts about the land as fel and twisted as this one, to Taliesin's mystic gaze. It has linked, bonded with the very soul and spirit of the Summer Knight, as much a part of him as his soul, his breath, his flesh. The motion to wrench it down is caught by those golden threads, before they writhe about him and pull taut. In that instance, the mageling will realize the strength in those limbs. The only limitation may be the bard's willpower, but it might result in quite the headache as he resists. "Release… me… he must di—"
And then the world goes dark.
Agravaine probably couldn't know what he just did. The only thing keeping that curse at bay all this time was Nathan's mind. In an instant, every carefully constructed wall and defense he has established comes crashing down. The sword suddenly flashes in darkness, blaring like an inverted sun. His already huge form begins to bulge more; forcing the golden threads apart, as his metallic armor twists. Snaps begin to break within it, metal warps like tinfoil, and then it buckles around. Half his face is now black, the skin seeming to become scaled, a large, twisted ram's horn bursting from his forehead.
"RRRRAAAAAUGH!!!" Two great wings of pure manifested darkness erupt from his back, shattering the golden threads, and dispersing the spell from him. He has lost himself. The spark of the Summer Night is now rapidly begin consumed… into an entity that feeds off his latent strength and will, and which could not have found a greater host for it's malfeasance.
*
One trifles with certain powers at their own peril.
Thuds and a skittering noise come from the floorboards above. The white fluff in the air and the heavier smoke cause a very loud sneeze, one that possibly extinguished a small lantern, if there were any. It might also jump up into the air, landing on skittering claws. The dog points its snout down into the hole revealing the cellar and whines. It whines rather loudly, enough that shouting and bashing things about won't cover it up entirely. It thumps its tail in the air, and opens those jaws. Funny red hound, it doesn't look at all like a wolfhound common to the court, and clearly its rusty coloration is a bit weird. It stares over the edge at those below and bays again. Except this time, it's not smothered by bedrock and soil, the river, and a collapsed building. It's a noisy damn dog not minding its own business with a howl that can shake the pillars of a forest. "AROO." Thumpthumpthump. Its howl knocks Sir Gareth plain over, clutching at his face, swatting at things possibly not there.
And poor, poor madman in black, he doesn't get much of a choice about it either as the disruptive timbre makes the black plague splat on the ground in clumps instead of maintaining any sort of form. The sound is plaintive and, for two people in the room, disquieting.
*
Ohhhhhhhhhhh no, not on his watch! No mageling beneath the blue doublet and scarlet-cloth now-Cloak — the Sorcerer Supreme instead in a mirror of this reality's Pencerdd. Save the soul, banish the influencing factor aiding in the Summer Knight making his dark decisions.
The backlash of broken spell-strands is wicked and Taliesin bares teeth for the psychic impact. It hurts, yes, makes icicles dagger deeply into his temples, but he's fought worse. Somebody called for a heaping side of the Vishanti? Done.
The aura around the man triples, shining nearly quasar-bright, as he opens himself up for channeling not one, but three gods. Static crackles over his body in little arcs and the very air ionizes around him. Mudras formed, he levels a imperious gaze towards the combatants. Terse, his voice overlaid with the roll of thunder, he bites out,
"By the might of the Brightest gods all three,
Baleful darkness, begone from thee!"
It's an explosive outpouring of power towards the Summer Knight's body, serendipitous timed just before the hound's equally-powerful cry, and Taliesin pours every ounce of his will to void the man of whatever blackness takes away his control. He doesn't have to like the Knight, but he sure as hell isn't going to let blood be spilt by outside influence.
*
Agravaine is…at least, somewhat hopeful that this super evil demon curse probably doesn't have the same…'kill sinners' issue that the Summer Knight does. His steel-blue eyes shine through the helm, watching, debating if…this is how he wanted to go, when just everything starts glowing. The bard is glowing? The hound is…noisy. Bound with gold threads, which he couldn't resist if he wanted to, the only thing he can truly do at this point is turn his head so that, if Summers explodes, he stands any sort of chance of survival.
*
Then there's Tywyll. She is right behind Taliesin when the spell begins, her eyes wide as she studies what is around her. Ordinarily she looks down, stays behind objects, and remains wary of her environment. Normally she looks away from the sun and hides her face from the light of the noonday. And in those instances she is fine. Now, however, the Sorcerer Supreme is just behind her and she is left beneath the power of his aura.
The darkness is being banished from the Summer Knight and as it is Nyx- not Tywyll, really, in a moment that hasn't been experienced by her previously in a world lacking halogen lamps and flash bombs- who screams and ends up recoiling toward one of the walls. Shadow clothing and mask are banished alike and the diminutive, pale blonde girl who is half prostrate beneath the smouldering ruin o that ephemeral magic is covered in searing, vivid burns. Just because someone puts enough ultraviolet radiation, sans ozone coverage, into a room to mimic the sun she thinks she can be flash burned and left curled up on a floor. What a wimp.
*
At least she's covered in flour. That might help offer minimal protection as an opaque dusting. Tywyll at least makes for an impressive addition to the floor along with a completely catatonic Sir Gareth, though the man is slowly crawling his way back to a rational regard.
*
A dark shadow is cast over Agravaine once the tethers of that extraordinary spell are cast away. It is clear his intent to sever him of his mortal coil is not remotely deterred. A good thing that the vessel before him is not the paltry bard Taliesin, but the true sorceror himself. A lesser cast might not stem the inevitable, after all. Shining light roars out and impacts the growingly demonic Summer Knight. A step backwards follows, before the entity braces itself. The armor is allowed to fall away without the golden rope, which shows that apparently Nathan's entire left arm has been grown and demonic all this time, thus the strange thickness of that armor. A well-concealed secret. However, that strange baying resonates in his mind. Causing some spark to stir, and the link of Nathan Summers to persist, time long enough for Strange to finish.
"GRRR… AUGH!!" The incredible glow is met by a shield of darkness, whirling and crackling before it. The sword is reared backwards, and as the mantra is intoned, hurled.
A moment later the full force of the spell strikes. The darkness disperses almost violently, scales upon face and torso receding quickly. The horn disintegrates, although his left arm and corrupted eye remain. A moment later Nathan thumps to his knees, and the darkness begins to whirl out once more. The curse is not so simple a thing that a single cast will remove it. However… his mind is once more his own. His flesh hand reaches up to grasp his shoulder, gritting his teeth in concentration. "Grr… augh…!" His full will once more brought to bear, the new spread is suddenly halted, although he's left covered in sweat and panting, utterly helpless in response.
*
ROLL: Cable +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 12
*
ROLL: Strange +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 10
*
ROLL: Cable +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 10
*
ROLL: Maximus +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 14
*
The red hound stands on all fours at the very edge of the hole, and then for some strange reason, it's not particularly an issue for it to step down ten feet or so. Those legs are long, but not that long. A sweep of a tail carelessly knocks aside the unwelcome sword, bashing it through the wall where it sticks out above four inches. Pulling that out will take some time indeed, or maybe it's time to get a new sword. Big old paws squish to either side of Sir Agravaine the Blamed, a back leg poised between him and the prostrate figure of Lady Tywyll in her sooty scorch of a bad day. Lowering its head, the hound licks the knight's face with a pink lolling tongue. There surprisingly isn't any dog drool. It feels rather like being woken up by a warm wash cloth.
Thumping its tail again, the hound bays, "Ar-ar-ar," and the sound is thankfully at far less of a panicked volume than before. It noses Agravaine up and out of its way, puppers trotting along to plop right in the middle of the fracas. It tips its head towards the open door. Tongue lolls out. Ears flop ridiculously. Pet me.
*
The shame about being a Conduit is that sometimes your confidence gets the better of you. It's a rampant personality trait in the Mystical field, seeing as it binds so closely into one's spellcasting abilities, and unfortunately for Taliesin, such a monstrous casting leaves him brutally open to the humming throw of the cursed sword.
Distracted still more by the cry behind him — oh gods below, Tywyll?! — his head is turned for a critical second to locate her. SLAM, the blade makes contact. The sound is minimal, a muffled thud, and the whift of the blade passing by him by mere inches brings his focus back to the scene with the whites of his eyes showing.
What is…this…dog doing?! Even as he drops to the floor, exhaustion making his knees tremble for the landing, he's giving the creature a suspicious look. Ohhhhh. OH. Well, let's not bother the dog then.
"No more!" Far less punch to his voice, but that undertone of steel remains.
*
"Ruff." That hound lolls its tongue out further, looking downright innocent of any charges. Like jumping down holes. Tail thumpthumpthumps.
*
As a reminder: the hallway stretches forward to a large open barrel. The hallway jogs around the corner into the darkness. Other than for an empty rack there's little to see.
*
Agravaine grabs for his shield and his sword as he stands up, and he backs up, holding the shield up, so that its protecting the rest of them from any further hikes in their Cable rates. As he reaches people, like Nyx, and Taliesin, he helps usher them into the room beyond, like a door slowly shutting and protecting them beyond that. So, unless they resist this protective service, he drags everyone but Cable into the room.
*
The main hallway cuts at a right angle to the left, full of a line of ale casks doing their thing in the cellar. No traps litter that route, though worryingly, a few drips of water are slinking through and it smells heavily of fire, which could be because upstairs is burning. So far the floorboards haven't caved in, though it's only a matter of time before they're all in peril. No stairs open, and the next angular turn opens into a wide chamber probably used for storage, brewing, or mind-controlling unsuspecting peasants and knights alike. Water showers down into a puddle on the far corner corresponding to the river. Barrels are tipped over, broken open, and a pair of rats peer with beady eyes. The real Rat? He's on the second floor platform making a slow and gelatinous getaway on stout legs, probably trying to get down to the tunnel burrowed into the wall that leads back into the city. Squeak squeak!
*
Tywyll slowly climbs to her feet, staggering slightly as she stands. Her skin maybe have a number of burns but she seems to be relatively steady as she places a hand against the hound for its help in standing. Shadows crawl acros the young woman to hide her floured, peasant dressed, and scorched form but it isn't enough to conceal her wounds. They are more superficial than might have been feared but no doubt extremely painful. She glowers at the room at large and stalks forward, back toward the barrels and the corner up ahead. "…There's someone here." The shadows coil around her as she looks up toward the ceiling. A barrage of meter long shadow spikes flies out toward the intended exit. That is no longer a safe space.
The bagpipe, no longer pinned with a knife of shadows, slides to the ground with a sad sound. It is no doubt envious of the trombone.
*
Tigra has arrived.
*
For long moments the Summer Knight breathes slow. Inch by inch the shadows retreat to where they were before his little episode, the walls and dams back into place within his mind. He is mostly unarmored, and what cloth he had under his heavy metal plate has been torn and shredded by his brief expansion of mass. But he grasps the wall and drags to his feet, stumbling in the direction of the others as sweat drips behind, eyes hazy and having trouble focusing. He's not sure what just happened… but his drive for his mission has little change, amidst the sea of thoughts. The goal. Always the goal. Always that, which pushes him forward…!
*
The rat is a man in a fine tunic and pants, but the sort of bland clothes that dissappear into the crowd. Sweating and troubled, he rushes down the stairs and kicks his flagon out of the way. Drinking is not so important as surviving, and he hastens his march through the wading waters.
*
In-fighting, finished, thank the gods. Clapping a hand on Agravaine's shoulder, the Master Bardd has no issue remaining behind the shield the Knight holds up between them and the struggling Summers.
Wait, what was that sound? The bagpipes? As they brush past it in their retreat, Taliesin takes a moment to fish around in the rent fabric of its make-up and finds…a shard. His gasp is silent and he stuffs this particular sliver into the inner lining of his doublet, into a pocket sewn in for a knife rather than a piece of relic, but that's cool, he always forgets about bringing a weapon anyways.
Once in the room with the spilled grog and retreating figure, it behooves him to glare at the offender. He's exhausted, nearly completely drained for the massive spells cast back-to-back. It took a huge chunk of his willpower, of his soul proper, and he leans against the wall, looking pale.
"Someone go get the rat bastard," he snarls, pointing with a shivering finger. "I need a moment." Oh, what it costs him to admit that.
*
Gareth is not a Merry Man at this point. Between being shot and made to go berzerk and getting dropped into a pile of flour and all the other indignaties, he's just about had it with this escapade. And now the Rat is ahead, and there's a feline instinct to chase. "Surrender and it will," he yells to the rat, "oh, hell with it," he decides, lunging into the water and slashing with his sword at the man's legs, going for the hamstring.
*
The helpful hound flumps at Taliesin's feet, lazily lolling.
*
Agravaine is happy to oblige and he pushes on Taliesin's arm to clear the shot. Its not very knightly, but he doesn't care. He's already been called a sinner. What's /one more dishonorable act/. He flings the dagger from his gauntlet across the space between him and the King Rat, aiming for his torso.
*
"Blither bother, you have no honour! No favour for the light for you!" cackles the fleeing king Rat. He does run, but that tunnel leading into the city is forcing him to wade.
*
"Eeee!" Damn knives!
*
ROLL: Maximus +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 16
*
Sliding down the wall to sit heavily, Taliesin leans his head back against the wall. He's content as the dog to loll about here, jaw hanging as he pants deeply. Having his eyes shut allows him to be spared the sight of the glittering arc of the thrown knife and flashing blade, but not the sounds of pain. His brows knit sharply and his lips thin when they close.
This is not his fight, especially when he has someone to heal and that's going to risk his reserves. Where is Tywyll, she who suffered the burns as side-effect to his earlier banishing?
"Lady Tywyll, if you can grab my hand, hold it. I will ease your pain," he murmurs, offering out said scarred palm. Once taken, a sky-blue light flashes at the shared touch and the spell's intent is to accelerate the healing of the wounds, to take away the pain, all as apology for his mistake.
When all is said and done, it's a very tired Pencerdd that reclines there in the dim light. He'll need a helping hand — or shoulder — to get him to his feet and to someplace safe to rest.
Turns out that teamwork works out in the end! Hamstrung, with a throwing knife to the kidney, the Rat King is easy prey for a fully-healed (and fully-peeved) Lady Tywyll to sling up over her shoulder like a sack of flour. He makes a pathetic whimpering sound, but with wrists and ankles bound, there's no escape. Gods help the poor man in her care. It won't be a smooth ride to the holding cell for him slung across the front of a horse.
*
In the end, the notion of tracking down the Rat King is a lost one. Striding past the hallway, ignoring the baying of the hound, the obviously weakened Summer Knight manages to stagger to his cursed sword stuck deep within the wall. Both hands, one monstrous and one mundane, grasp the hilt before he collapses to his knees, too exhausted now to move any further. He's just… going to rest here a bit…
*