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|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d20 for: 20
|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d20 for: 8
|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d4 for: 4
|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d4 for: 1
|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 6
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 13
1342 hours. Le Grotte des Ardoiseires. Basse-Normandie.
Grey winter in the slightly rolling landscape of Normandy needs something to brighten up the afternoon. What might that be? Violence!
How about a quartet of crossbow bolts shot through the door into Galahad's vicinity. What should have struck him through the chest deflect off his shield, pelting earth and bush equally.
The quick reload issues clicks as the shadowy assailants take aim again. Dark figures inside a snug farmhouse constructed of wood and stone fall back and plug their retreat in a timely fashion. Shots rain out at angles, rather than dead straight into the man with a shield and a nice knock. Down, angled high, for the corner out the door. Such tactics hint these are not mere bandits looting an empty farmstead. Too practiced and orderly to be anything but practiced. It could be they're startled, resettled soldiers sharing the love!
Two of the bolts sing past, striking the bardd and Roland. Maybe Galahad deflected that one. They can argue later. If there's a later.
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 8
The crossbowman manages to at least wing Roland - a quarrel head on can punch through plate, if it hits right, and it can certainly do a number on the chainmail beneath. He brings up his own shield, but not in time to keep it from striking right by the elbow. His hissed response is decidedly unholy, and will no doubt earn both censure and penance from Galahad later. If there is a later. Roland's backing away, trying to keep his shield up and angled to intercept any incoming shots.
So much for preparation. There's the practice of repetition, of bringing glistening rotational shielding up and between envisioned projectiles — and then there's the real thing. Ambush is a dire threat for the Mystically inclined and while ego makes for a delightful armor socially-speaking, these bolts won't be stopped by any mere words.
The sharp zip follows the clack of triggers pulled and metal deflects what it can. Cloth and leather does a far less effective job. A strangled cry means that a bolt has found a home in the deliniation between clavicle and subclavius, and the mandala-shields fall to sparkling ash. The Bardd attemps to stumble behind the nearest armored body, clutching at the small quarrel lodged against bone, and tries to keep the liquifying sensation of red from taking over his brain.
Let no one say that blackberry bushes have completely distracted the mighty and agile Sir Gareth. Already in motion from hearing the sound of crossbows being readied, the bolts have barely cleared the door before he leaps into the doorway with a loud cry. He twists in the air as only a cat can, landing one-handed, then pushing off the ground to leap in another direction, twisting away from those who would try to hit him.
Steve Rogers follows Strange's cry, backing towards him to guard him with his shield and body so that he can be tended to. "Roland, while they're winding their bows!"
|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d20 for: 17
|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d20 for: 6
Four crossbowmen retreat in order, slapping another bolt into place at ungodly speed. The avenue through the house is simple, since the architectural design isn't exactly the Vatican. Back through a corridor into a smoky greatroom, their next point of egress is a door and they are absolutely headed that way. Rather than break ranks and flee for their lives, they keep tight formation, covering one another in the event some madman with a sword chases after them. Even the bloody hurrah piercing Taliesin's body does not warrant a cheer out of them. Professionals! Consummate professional farmer-murderers are on the run, not taking full advantage. Hard, rather, when a knight with uncharacteristic agility jumps in the doorway to dismember their peace.
"What the bloody hell is that?" Franks, of course, and Frankish snarled. Damn Neustrians. Such trouble!
A singsong burst of arrows follows. How fast are these bastards? Thank Neustrian engineers.
Speaking of maniacs with swords. There's one now. Namely, Sir Roland. A crossbow isn't much damned good if someone's bashing your face in with a shield edge, which is precisely what he's attempting. Not quite berserker rage, but close.
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 16
Locked legs keep the Bardd aright for another second or two before he takes a knee, gripping at the protruding haft as if it would stop the rude jolts of gut-watering pain from splintering off whenever he so much as breathed.
"Keep…them distracted," he grinds out, hoping at least Galahad is able to hear him above the chaos erupting within the house. "Give me — give me time, I shall cripple them back." Teeth flash in a grimace and he drops his head, greyed at the temples. Anyone nearby is likely to hear his whispering suddenly gain an echoed nuance, layering upon itself; the very air around his outstretched and clenched hand begins to glow with myriad ice-bright motes. The spell needs more time to stabilize first before it can be tossed, conjured up with the intensity of a modern flash grenade — here's hoping another bolt doesn't find a home somewhere!
They can try to keep a tight formation, and they can try to cover themselves. Against peasants, certainly it would work. Against mere men-at-arms? Very possibly. Against a knight? Against a knight like -Gareth?- Not so much.
He lands from his last leap and lunges forward, reaching out and grabbing the closest Frank, not at all gently, turning and throwing him out the door towards the others. "Say hello to my little friend!" he calls in the Frank's wake, before spinning about towards the others. "Surrender or I eat your souls!" he growls.
Advancing behind his shield, Galahad rests his hand on his sword hilt but does not yet draw. Overconfidence, maybe, or reluctance. He pushes forward behind Roland, helping to clear the dwelling.
Bolts blossom in another singing melody. One scrapes by Gareth and fails to do more than cursory damage to his pleasantly arranged armour. The same can't be said for the Frank, who twists and writhes to get away a tad ineffectively. Roland is fortunate indeed to have an open shot on one of the black-clad fellows, blade biting in deep to the flesh and throwing blood. Two down. Two to go.
Boots strike the dirt floors and the rearmost of the soldiers out to the horses picketed and guarded by three more soldiers in the front of the house. Down the ways is a snug village, a bit smoky, through hedges. The first of the bandits is onto the horse, shouting orders to move out, and spurring into action to get out of there. while the trio draw bows at take aim with terrifying leisure. The second is astride almost as fast as the first, not about to worry about his compatriot. What a jerk.
Good luck on that. Not smart - of course there would be reinforcements. But bows remain no good close in, so he continues that nearly blind rush, trying to take the archers by surprise - to get into blade range before they can fire. "To me," he yells at Galahad.
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 4
Left unguarded, Taliesin looks up with magic-lit eyes closed to mere slits. He scrambles to his feet as best that he can and promptly plasters himself against the outside wall of the house.
The first breath is creaky, since it jostles the bolt, but not the second and he bellows as best he can into the doorway leading to the interior. "Knights of the Bright Lady, avert your eyes!" The rapidly-rippling conflagration of light is then thrown inside. It flies in a low arc, shedding smaller stars in its softball-sized wake, and then it hits the dirt flooring. Brilliance fills the entire abode as the spell is released, its intensity on par with a detonating transformer.
Steve Rogers turns his head aside at the wizard's yell, shielding his eyes from the flare and coming up swinging, his sword gleaming like fire in the mystic brilliance filling the building. Curiously, he does not strike to kill so much as to disarm and wound, taking fingers rather than heads, and smashing the wind and sense out of opponents with blows of his shield and pommel in short, compact attacks well-suited to the close quarters.
Gareth is starting to go for another one, just getting warmed up by this point. The tiger in him is definitely enjoying having been able to unsheath its claws. Taliesin's warning puts a pause to it, though. He turns away and puts a hand over his easily bedazzled eyes, able to see hints of the lint between his fingers and through his lids. He'll try to follow in its wake with another attack, relying on hearing and smell to find his opponents until the spell will fade.
|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d20 for: 13
|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d20 for: 2
|ROLL| Morgan +rolls 1d20 for: 15
Light, chaos, and ravaging noise. That wounded soldier now on the ground took a wee bit to land. A scramble and a thud after being discarded like used cloth, he tries his best not to break his neck. Brilliance exploding inside the house takes out his sight. Great, now he's staggered and blind. Galahad and Roland's target merely drops screaming.
At the front of the house, things are wilder. Horses whinny in terror at the flashbang burst, their hooves skidding on stone and earth. The three equines still picketed reel, pulling away, squealing in terror. Throwing down a crossbow, a soldier manages to grab reins and haul himself over the saddle, carried off at a mad gallop. He leaves behind one who goes down to his knees, hands over his ears, and the third running on foot for the village down the slope.
|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 18
They may be their medieval selves, and thus warriors who fight with sword and shield. But….in Roland, somewhere, is still James Barnes, and James is a consummate marksman. He doesn't waste time trying to catch the man fleeing on horseback. Rather, he sheathes his sword and slings his shield on his back as he races forward to snatch up the dropped crossbow. Then he takes a knee and aims right at the man's back, sending the bolt whizzing after him.
Poor fellow: he falls right off the horse and that roan keeps roaring back into the village. Away!
From the sounds of things both inside and out, it was effective enough as a deterrent. The squealing of frightened mounts is something to account for and gritting his teeth, Taliesin makes his way around to the front of the house, sticking close to the wall for support and safety.
Carefully looking around the corner and leaning heavily, he's in time to see that dead-on shot by Roland. The Knight gets a wondering glance for a passing second. Then, the Bardd reaches a doe-skin-gloved hand towards the bandit beating feet. It's juvenile when done to an unsuspecting classmate at Kamar-Taj, but seems far too useful in this instance. A few whispered Words and the laces of the bandit's boots come to life — and then intertwine like a ball of snakes recently awoken to the spring. It's probably very difficult about now for the man to continue his ground-eating loping much less mincing on his toes.
This takes another measure of Taliesin's strength from him and he slides down the rough outer wall to one knee again, watching the outcome with whey-faced tenacity.