|
      |
Similarly, Tywyll- who was probably bleeding to death given the lack of medical care- is apparently doing better than it appears she should have been able to do. ight now she is going through the motions of practicing using a club in her off-hand instead of a real weapon. Finally the small woman scowls and lobs the cattle prod with a surprising amount of force. Scowling, she rummages utnil she finds an actual mace, and takes a deep breath. To the cow Nyx states apologetically, "I don't have time to learn the arts of your ancestors. I need to see about defeating an army that is immune to all of my magic. That last is a mutter. "Well. Maybe not all of it…"
Yes, Sifu Ancient Moo has become the girl's battlefield confidante and planning partner."
*
Ser Bercilak, the Green Knight, walks past Lady Tywyll and 'Ancient Moo' without particular batting an eyelid. He talks to animals all the time, so this is less-strange to him. Also, the man is somewhat preoccupied with something. Something worrying — for him, at least.
Setting his helmet down beside him, the burly, green-bearded fellow sits upon a log and rests his elbows on his knees. "'Tis gone," he murmurs to himself. "All of it… gone."
*
It's been a trying time for Sir Gareth and his companion Cymryth. They've been airborne, trying to keep clear of Orcas, and being only partially successful at it. Noentheless, partly successful is enough to keep them mostly intact, though more than once Gareth has wished for a way to attack the dragon behind them. Perhaps with fire. A tiger, burning brightly. What a peculiar thought.
Finally they're able to disengage and get enough separation that they can safely get down to the battlefield to rejoin the others, where Gareth eyes Ancient Moo. "Not a mighty minotaur champion in disguise, I trust?" he asks as he respectfully dismounts. His sharp hearing brings Bercilak's murmuring to his attention. "Sir Knight?" he asks.
*
The Master Bardd watches the Green Knight retreat to his melancholy perch on the log with a faint frown of confusion. All the merriment seems to have drained away like meltwater. Gareth's arrival is noted with a sigh of relief.
"Seems the Prince of Night is as cowardly as we supposed," he murmurs, turning in place to face the rest of the group. For all the insulting gesticulation of the shadow of the reclining night, it seems to have been missed. Taliesin steps directly onto the outstretched wrist of the blackened outline against the torn and bloodied field.
*
Maximus starts…floating…when the dragon bats its great wings. He has no clue of what is happening, here, but he starts flailing his arms in the air and yells, "Grab me, grab me!"
*
Pretanikai is the only dragon present on the battlefield, and lambent scales and shining spines shine as it circles over the group. Its head snaps up as Cymryth emerges from the fog banks and electric storms, trumpeting a low, barely heard hiss as greeting that's more felt as vibrations. The earth shudders under their feet, not enough to throw them wholly off-balance. Even from up there, the dragon's snapping wings knock about dirt and loose weapons, and the fallen cow struggles to get back up to its hooves.
Being tumbled over does not help it much. "Mooooo."
The recoiling ground forces are on the opposite side of the battlefield, forming up into a wedge, relying on some kind of primitive tactics and organization. Between them a vast swamp has formed where the water dragon, Albion, turned the earth into a quagmire deadly to anyone heavier than a sprite. Rapid chanting responds to shouting, and someone pokes their head over the battlements far above.
Taliesin steps in far too close to the Green Knight's personal space. Trust a bard to know nothing about a warrior's range. In the fracas he blurs a little while walking up behind him. Then blood is pouring across the front of his chest, a mirrored bloom coming out the back. Now they're blood-brothers, in the sense of both having the same gaping wound in their chests. Probably with the same very bad, no good end.
*
Bercilak responds firstly to Sir Gareth, glancing up at the other knight, and lets out a sigh. "My magic… 'Tis… I have been bereft of it. I tried to use it during the battle, alas…"
He trails off, then glances upward at Ser Agravaine. "Ah, grab him! Grab him!" He would if he could, but without magic at his command, Ser Bercilak is somewhat less than himself. Then up comes the Bardd, who crosses the knight's shadow and cops a mortal wound for it. The Green Knight leaps off the log upon which he sits, stumbles and hits the ground. "Taliesin! What in the name of Unholy Wanda have you…!!"
*
Tywyll is climbing to her feet now, blue eyes intense as she turns toward where the rest of the group is gathered. The small woman climbs to her feet then, stretching sligtly and she and her new several pound piece of steel are both orienting themselves what is going down. When Taliesin is struck the girl screams and starts to sprint in the direction of all the commotion.
The approaching Tywyll is like klaxon sounding doom and destruction. Raw fear and intense rage are broadcasting for anyone nearby who is susceptible to her empathic abilities. Nothing but the bad emotions, fof course. Panic. Loss. Fury. The Green Knight's shadow is torn from him and then shredded into a million pieces to be thrown aside like it had never existed.
The Knight's Shadow, not the horror that attacked Taliesin. That evades her grasp entirely, if it is still here at all. What does a Shadow Monster do when no longer confined to a shadow?
*
Gareth winces at the waves of negative energy coming from Tywyll, screaming to even his modest empathetic senses. He turns towards Taliesin at the wounding, nose wrinkling from the smell of blood. The smell of blood…and brimstone, and moss… "There!" he says, pointing at nothing in particular. "The it's there!" he amplifies, drawing his sword. "I can smell it!"
*
One minute, he inhaling to query the Green Knight as to what precisely has the verdant dandy in the doldrums.
The air goes away to be replaced by a sudden vacuum. The sensation of numbed invasion turns to jaw-locking agony. The exhale chuffed out is bubbled even as he stares seemingly at the middling distance at nothing.
He can see the shadow of the sword impaling him. Taliesin can also see the hellacious fire flickering along its blade, licking at his flesh even as the ichor stain gives way to his dusty-blue tunic. The sword doesn't retract and he grasps at where the wrist of the wielder might. The only thing keeping him standing aright is the blade locked between his ribs and the strain it puts on a system already flashing red with overload.
Gods below, being stabbed HURTS! Nobody told him this. He's putting in a complaint when this is said and done.
*
Terror and rage pour across the battlefield, thick as the poisoned fog said to hang over swamps where no good serf would live by choice. It clings to the nose and mouth, part of Tywyll's magic. The cow bellows a lowing snort of fear and runs as fast as its hooves will carry it away.
More problems lie overhead: the shrieks and screams of the dragons, gone wild with the darkest emotions. All of them. All are flung into the paroxysm of rage and terror. Pressure bubbles strafe the battlefield. Flames come raining down in chunks of smoldering cinders that set the ground alight, if there is any trampled vegetation or wooden siege equipment. The water dragon becomes a whitewater torrent cascading over anything in its path. Pretanikai backbeats its wings from the mad, lightning-chased serpent soaring around the side of the crag. It's a pretty sight, for those who like to watch the primordial forces of creation up close and very personal, tearing at one another.
*
Ser Daphne shakes off the odd mix of terror that seized her, "What in the name…" She looks at Taliesin, moving over towards him as she glances around, blade and shield held at the ready as she seems to sense that whatever is the problem now, its solution lies with him.
*
Panic, fear, rage? Yeah, Maximus can feel her inconvenient projections. The more Pretanikai beats his wings, the more he floats away from the scene, like a lost parade balloon in the shape of a knight. Its not until he has gained even further distance, fire rocks wizzing by, that he seems to grasp the situation, that mayhaps, he can affect what is happening to him, and he stops, hovering in the chaos. Steel eyes shift around, thoughtfully. Then…there is an excess of clanging and a gauntlet falls. Then another one. Different location. Like an aerial battleship, trying to find that little 2-peg motherfucker in the ocean of shade. But awesomely, there's zero way that thing can get him up here. His codpiece falls down from the sky. CLANK. Then greaves. clink, plunk, searching, searching. "Watch for if I hit something!"
*
Flames that only the bard can see crackle along the incision in his chest and straight out the other side. It lasts a few moments longer, and then evaporates. His tunic smokes in the wake of its absence.
*
Agony claws at Bercilak's chest.
Just like it had when the Black Knight ran him through. He scrambles back, muttering to himself: "'Tis only a flesh wound! 'Tis only a flesh wound!" ALthough he could be simply telling the Bardd to 'walk it off'. Bercilak stands back up, upon seeing his shadow ripped to pieces, and spins around.
"Is it gone? The… creature — the knight? Does it lurk still in my shadow? My shadow of all things! I feel… violated. Is this what violated feels like?" And the pained man shudders.
*
Bits of metal fall from the sky, threatening those who stand still. Flaming chunks of peat and stone crash to the ground in cinders. Lightning streaks from the cloudless sky on the eel-tail of Orcas. The ground shudders, and Sir Agravaine has the very unpleasant experience of turbulence for the first time while flying of his own accord. It's like being dumped in a lake of bubbly when clinging to a cork.
*
Seeing how The Knight reacts to her assault Tywyll managesto get agrip of herself. She is staggering slightly, shakigng her head quickly. "I didn't- grab it. I tried. The creature was too fast. Too strong. I am afraid you will look very odd in sunlight for a little while. To try to get rid of it I pulled your real shadow to pieces…" Then, however, the girl is diving for taliesin. She scoops the Bardd up from the ground and into her slender arms. She's cradling him against her chest as if he doesn't weigh mroe than she does. Not that weighing more than Nyx is hard; the girl is objectively rather small.
Bending down low Tywyll holds the man close, small hands splayed over his wound. "I- don't know if… I, um." Shadows are forming around herh ands, patches to cover both entry and exit wound. As if that is enough to danything. Pressure bandages provide some relief but usually not to one so thoroughly skewered. "I don't even know what happened. I'm sorry…" She might not be entirely coherent, kneeling on the ground with a dying man in her arms.
To Bercilak Tywyll says, "Can you feel it still? Is-… will it come back, do you think?"
*
The heavens practical open with chaos as the dragons collectively freak out. Gareth crouches down, shield raised for cover…and then bits of armor come falling down as well. "Of all the…" Somehow he manages to avoid being taken out by a flying codpiece. "It's -there!-" he says, pointing again, and then leaping out of his crouch, trying to slice the shadow that he can smell, but not see. "I'll have you yet!"
*
Ser Daphne looks as surprised as everyone else, but at Gareth's urging she does a quick calculation… of 'what would I do if invisible and trying to avoid getting stabbed'. With that, she moves and swings her blade through the hopefully not-quite-so-empty space.
*
It's weird how the brain works in shock. The Spymistress shouldn't be this strong, able to slowly lower him even as the fire outlining the sword vanishes. His knees wouldn't be helpful anyways, they're all jellied.
"Prrr-hressure helps," Taliesin manages with a runnel of blood at the corner of his mouth. He's fighting for air with a collapsing lung. He tries to keep upright as best he can, locking an elbow against the muddied grass and using Tywyll as the other point of balance. Quick, brain, think! Think fast, think hard, think against the trauma: what does one do for a collapsing lung?!
If anything, he wills the attacks of the others to contact whatever invisible demon plagues them all.
*
Maximus dives downwards, awkwardly at first, then picking up speed and a little bit of control, trying to make contact with his sword outstretched. He may just spear himself on shadow and die, but that would be preferrable to watching the few people he considers to be friends to die while he hovers over them.
*
Oh, dance in the dark of night
Sing to the morning light.
The apples turn to brown and black,
The battlefield is red.
Oh, the war! is the common cry.
Pick up your swords and fly.
The sky is filled with good and bad,
That mortals never know….
Sir Daphne lashes out, her sword cutting through space and landing with a screech upon empty air made of steel. Cutting edges from Sir Gareth in turn throw sparks as red as blood, marigold-orange petals on a battlefield at the foot of the Castle of Maidens. Close to the high cliffs, their duel is a strange sight, fought against nothing. Then falls a man stripped of his feathers to let him fly. A blade serves as a guide to run through the back and punch the ground. Collectively draconic shrieks stifle the sound even Gareth's sharp senses might not pick up, and Agravaine would be hard pressed to catch: a gasp rushing out.
The Prince of Night collapses to his knees, steel armour and chain doing nothing to stop the blade cleaving him in twain. He falls forward onto the ground, almost hollow metal.
*
Bercilak runs over to the fight, just that little bit too slow thanks to the phantom-injury in his chest… which is fading, at last. When he reaches the spot marking the death of the Prince of Night… he spits on the ground.
"Good riddance," says he with a snarl. "Molesting my shadow like that…I wish in part to bring him back only to slay him again… and again… if I but had my magic returned to me…"
*
Tywyll is so distracted by the person she is holding in her arms that she does not immediately piece the cacophony together. One can see it in how the girl moves, who had been ruminating carefully upon what it means to let afriend die in yoru arms. The shadow bandages are flowing over the girl's fingers now, as if pressing like that might allow her to apply enough pressure to truly staunch the wounds.
Slowly lifts her chin, blue eyes shifting toward the raw chaos of what is transpiring. They are glassy for a moment but quickly focus. She lets out a soft gasp of surprise, barely a breth of air. Taliesin is held protetively as the group takes their turns in destroying the Prince of Knight. She swallows hard, almost choking on her voice. The first attempt to speak fails. Then…
"If any of you can heal! Magic. A surgeon. Something! Please!" The girl's voice is rough and a littleharsh. She isn't in great shape herself. It doesn't matter right now.
*
Gareth's sense of smell is enough to knwo where the enemy is, but his strength is not enough to drive his attack home, his slashing sword clanging against armor. But it clangs hard, and firmly, and helps identify it for the others, until Maximus strikes like a bolt from above. "Huzzah!" Gareth cries at that. "Well struck!" Elation fades, though, as he turns to off his meager help with Taliesin. No healer, he.
*
Ser Daphne looks at the girl, and looks a bit pained, "I have no means to heal… though, I could do one thing. But I don't know how easy it would be to reverse. To be frank, it would be a last resort." With the Knight of Darkness dead, she sheathes her blade, giving a nod towards Gareth and Agravaine, the latter getting a faint smile as well. Though for now she appears more concerned with healing the stricken Taliesin.
*
At the cry for a doctor, Ser Bercilak's eyes immediately shift toward the dying Bardd… Aye, that would be reality bleeding through yet again. Alas, however, he shakes his head and runs back to Lady Tywyll, who is also injured.
"There are no doctor's present," says he with a glance down at Taliesin. "None with any skill — or leeches — worth bragging day and night about…There must be something…"
The Green Knight sinks his hands down into the ground and starts murmuring something under his breath. It sounds like the groans and creaks of trees moving in the wind. The man is praying to the Woods, for the return of his powers… and perhaps to heal his friends.
*
The woods do not respond for the woods are not present on the stony foundations of the Castle of Maidens.
*
In the oddly-strong arms of the Spymistress, his consciousness ebbs and flows. There's the sharp sounds of ringing blades colliding, the grating of a sharpened edge punching through armor-plate, and the shearing sound of success. Taliesin looks woozily at the smoking pile of armor and manages a pained grin. Make that grimace.
"Dragons," he rasps, grunting as he tries to sit up again. Not a good idea; he leans against Tywyll once more, not knowing how heavily he's bleeding at this point. "Pre…Pretanikai…" A cough brings bubbles up.
Man, this was NOT how things were supposed to go! He demands a re-roll.
*
ROLL: Wanda +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 66
*
Agravaine pulls his hand back away from the sword that is…actually stuck in the…knight? He honestly looks a little surprised. He's missing a goodly amount of armor, now, standing there like he woke up a little late for the battle. He looks at Gareth, then Daphne, and says to both of them, "Thank you…for…" what? How do you describe 'pinpointing the invisible creature within a tolerable range of error? "pinpointing the invisible bastard within a tolerable range of error. I am…somewhat glad to have survived." He can't even look in Taliesin's direction. He can do nothing for that, except drink heavily, later. Probably have some risky sex, and make strange investment choices for a few years, before finally confessing all his unrequited feelings and loss to the local, fat, butcher, in a fit of desperation for solace, who finally manages to treat him right, despite not really being a looker, and Agravaine learns the true meaning of love, and adopts several local children and teaches them song, and dance, and presumably butchering. Sounds about right.
Or. He could try to mind control Pretinockassholedragon to get his sorry peacock butt back down here. Agravaine tries that. Aggressively.
*
A dead man lies sprawled in the dirt, armour black as pitch, a helm concealing the likeness of his face. Blood pours over the metal, and the scent of copper overtakes that of moss and a most peculiarly faint odor, like that of a hearth. His bloody sword lies in the dirt.
Stormclouds brew and tear apart. The speckling of cinders from the sky burns flesh where they strike, and there are many of them, for Cymryth is not lacking in projectiles to spit up or ignite. Albion is flooding a tower, in addition to reducing the value of Caeredin's waterfront properties, substantially. Nothing like a bit of heavy inundations and flooded basements to rebalance the market a little. Also, wyrms plunging through the heavens and making it rain brimstone and tiny meteorites or frost comets is another reason to suffer.
The pavonine dragon has an opinion for Sir Agravaine the Peacock: a black bolt crashing down from the sky, wings folded, eerily silent but for the earth-shaking rattle that builds and swells from all directions until unbearably strong, putting those standing upright to their knees and bringing down several parapets cracked by enough attacks to be worrisome, anyways. At least, that's what the builders will say when asking if anyone in the kingdom ensured their building was proof against flood. Or earthshaking harmonics.
"Now can I eat it?" snarls the flame-wyrm on the wing, no longer constrained to slagging goblins.
*
Ser Daphne shakes her head, and looks over towards the flame-wyrm, "I… don't suppose you or your fellows know anything about healing? One of ours is badly wounded." And she hopes that the dragon wasn't talking about eating Taliesin… though, well, make sure he doesn't make it through first, right?
*
Ser Bercilak scowls.
This being bereft of magic has him… thoroughly disturbed. Helpless. Hopeless. The Woods are not here. The Woods refuse to help him, thus hindering him from helping others.
"Old Ones of Shadow and Darkwater," he prays then, ignoring the others around him. "I come as one known to the Night, and I appeal to the Lightless in their hidden splendour."
He looks over at Taliesin and sets his jaw.
"What power you gave to the Black Knight, give it to me — and I will be your agent until my debt is paid…" Slowly the man lifts a hand to the blade of his battleaxe — and equally slowly drags his palm along its edge, drawing blood.
"Hear me… and I will serve…"
*
Maximus points at Taliesin. "Heal him without harming him." OH, he's probably going to be the one getting eaten the very moment he lets go of the dragon, which he does, because he's not sure how Pret activates those powers and if he tries to control dragonbrain he might just make it pee or something.
*
The sheer winds moved by the sudden arrival of a dragon — dragons? — has Taliesin blinking owlishly up from where he sprawls across Nyx's legs. His head leans against her chest. Gosh, her heart is beating so fast…she's not breathing easily either, maybe he should…heal her too…? Wait, everything's all muzzy and his mouth tastes funny. Metallic, blugh.
The Green Knight speaks and draws his attention. A lazy turn of his head and he widens his eyes. "You — no!" He wriggles in the Spymistress's arms, all for naught but nearly pushing himself into unconsciousness again. Steeling against the lightheadedness, he scowls at the Knight and the cut palm, sacrificial blood welling up. "Idiot! Verdant d-dandy, STOP!" The snarl is twisted in pain, both physical and mental alike. "Sssstop," he manages again, markedly more faint in volume this time.
Whump, there goes the Spymistress, finally succumbing to bloodloss. The Pencerdd isn't far behind, lying alongside her with his head pillowed on her arm in plain…bloody luck.
*
The flame-wyrm, Cymryth, merely circles with a glimmer of madness in its eyes as though willing to devour the tasty morsels below. If they're dark fey, delicious. If they are knights, toasty and delicious. Alas, staying in place is hard when a psychotic windstorm in draconic form blows through, chasing it away.
Wings work in great sweeps, keeping Pretanikai roughly hovering. It clears the shaking ground which easily knocks people down in a twenty yard radius around the glittering beast. It already has demonstrated an ability to knit together ribs. It snaps its head towards the promise offered by Sir Bercilak and there is no hiss escaping it. The sound is an infuriated snarl shaking up from the earth itself in denial of what he dares to say. That great long tail that knocked Lady Tywyll, Sir Agravaine, and Taliesin from a courtyard lashes out as the dragon lands. At least no terrible spines hit the already badly battered Green Knight. He just goes sprawling into the mud.
"Thou art knocked over for a reason. One that is not excessive or unjust. Recover the key of Myrddin of Cat Coit Celidon, and be away from here."
*
It's noteworthy said long tail is not mucky with dirt when it swings back to coil in serpentine ease around Taliesin and Lady Tywyll. Though it must be said they are rather squashed together before the thing lands.
*
Ser Daphne looks at the circling fire-wyrm with a cautious expression, noticing the hungry gaze, and her hand drifts slightly back towards the helm secured at her belt. She doesn't put it on just yet, as Pretanikai states their message, and looks to the others, "Well then."
*
Ser Bercilak goes flying.
Sort of.
The dragon-tail doesn't do that much damage to him, thanks to his protective, enchanted armour, but it still elicits a deep groan from the knight. Pain and irritation.
"You heard me…" he tells the Lightless Lords softly as he stands up. "I await your reply." Then he looks athte dragon and his companions. "THAT was uncalled for. Oh. Oh, so NOW it heals us. Thank… you?" He doesn't sound to sure of his gratitude.
*
Maximus does not get eaten! YAY! A bit sheepishly, he picks up a bit of his armor, so that he can collect the shards in it like a bucket. Or, if they feel like the shards would be better split up between everyone, that's fine by him too, as long as they are coming along. And then he will aid in dragging anyone unconscious to their rescue-vehicles, aka, dragons, for extraction to the nearest seedy bar.
*
Waking up surrounded by the sleek scales of a dragon is something he will never get used to. The terrible thrusting wound is healed within Pretanikai's encircling tail, touching the earth as it is and siphoning its healing powers.
No sound this time, more of a woozy lifting of his head, and he winces. "Gods-dammit, what…?" It all comes back to him and he shifts his trapped arms about until he realizes that he's jostling a still-healing Lady Tywyll. Oops. Not the way he ever thought he'd be this close to her. With a sigh of relief, he takes in the sight before him. Hale and whole, the shards collected…he can't ask for much more.
Lies. He needs a stiff drink. The phantom caress of a kid-skin leather glove still lingers on the nape of his neck, making him swallow.
"The shards…they're ours. Retreat. Retreat for now. Regroup." The normally poetic Bardd is terse for the shadowing of the battle they endured, harrowing as it was.