Many Miles Before I Sleep

[Kait]

This is not how it was supposed to happen.

Putting an end to abberation after abberation, suffering their attacks that bruise and tear at tender, living flesh gives rise to bile in her throat and a numbness in her mind. Time seems to slow as her master steps from the shadows, from the very shadow of the Ashfiend to face the torrent of his powerful blows. The anger and fear that grips the young woman as the Grand Master is so casually tossed aside leaves her with jaws clenched, stock-still, and torn between running to help the man and making a desperate rush to destroy the monster.

Sir Storth's near-violent grip and steady gaze are more than enough to bring the squire round. Words from the once silent knight, from the man who first met her at that gate and bid her enter when another would have turned her away would not go unheeded. The quiet man of strength and honor has made the decision for her, and with his command freed her from some measure of guilt and regret that will surely follow as the consequences reveal themselves.

The squire is quick to respond, and those unlucky few undead who find themselves between her and the fallen Sir Deucalios soon come to know the determination of her blade. That Storth buys time -no, that he buys her master's life with his own- makes her quest that much more important. Small hands dig through rubble without a care for torn nails or scratched skin, and a voice more careful and controlled than she knew herself capable of reaches out to the man beneath it all.

"I will get you out from under this, and then you can help me get you up." Grand Master or not, the edge of steel to her voice will suggest that there is no room for argument here. She will not fail in this, even if it means using every ounce of strength she has to drag the man away inch by inch.

[Sherazade]

Too long..... Too long the ritual to replenish her diminished strength had taken too long. that was the thought that seared through Valaeli's mind as she stepped out into the battle, just in time to see the grand master thrown into the buliding, in time to see storth speak and turn to face the fiend.

There were so few fighting now, still standing, and even those were tiring, finding curage ebbing awaylike a turning tide.

"Time.... It is time to sound the call to service" As she stood there frozen for but a single instant, a breath, wondering what to do.

Power flowed from her as she unhooked the horn from her belt, arcane breezes flowing in thickening eddies from her. Snow white hair danced upon the rising wind, partnered the fluttering undulations of her dress, the rustle of her wings. Ruby lips slid around the horns mouth piece and she drew in a deep breath, focused all her will into this single task and blew.

Deep and true the note sounded echoing on and on as the runes carved upon the pearlescent surface glowed with silver light, a light that was answered in every cloak pin she had made, linking them now and forever.

It was a sound to inspire courage, to give hope to the weary, even as they appeared lost. And of course to call those of honour the brace of heart to aa very special messanger service.

(ooc anyone interested in the messanger service leave me a private message here with your irc nick and i will contact you)

[Malaroth]

A horrid sizzling sound greeted the faithful squire as she drew near to the tune of the horn that echoes across the crumbling chapter house. There is no tell-tale stench, no ear-shattering shrieks, no flailing in agony as the Grand Master was consumed - if only because he was not being consumed. That rattling hiss was not the sound of a burning man but rather the sound of intense heat striking unyielding cold, an arctic frost that had settled upon and throughout the knight's flesh. His chill was one to bite and numb the squire as she began the process of pulling him free.

A hand for the ground beneath him and a coarse grunt accompanied Sir Deucalios as he took to a knee and swayed wearily to his feet amidst the dislodged rubble. Immediately his legs trembled, threatening to give way as his hands sought Patience's shoulders to help bear his armored weight. The bitter cold swirled around him in a protective arctic envelope, billowing across his squire's flesh even as it reduced the flames that lapped hungrily for him into smothered clouds of wind blown ash.

"Have to get out," he whispered through cracked, bleeding lips as his head lolled about upon the breadth of his shoulders. "So cold... so dark." A staggering step brought him to his knee upon which he swayed like a weed tangled in tree rots - threatening to be born away and yet not even able to capitulate. "so dark."

So dark even with the inspiring horn, that set his legs firmly and helped him totter upright once again, clinging desperately to his squire, as he peered about him like an old man lost in the dark. He mourned over some creeping, chilling shadow that had crossed his heart even as the fire burned orange shadows into the hollows of his cheeks and painted his grim visage with windblown ash.

Osric Storth kept all other vocalizations to himself as The Ashfiend parried his assault and counter-struck. For him there was only measured breath, watchful eyes for the retreating master and squire, along with the other knighthood survivors - the paltry handful that had escaped this creature's wrath. Setting his jaw he staggered back as his armor absorbed the fierce assault, and a second, before he brought his weapon between himself and merciless death.

The Ashfiend's burning eyes skewered his soul into his flesh with the promise of never escaping this one, neither the monster's wrathful blade nor servitude in the life to come. Another hammering offensive rocked the master knight upon his heels, turning him towards one of the buildings that yet bore itself upright, crowned in flames, while the last of the undead seemed to turn as one and plunge through the original walls of flame that, no longer necessary to destroy, had begun to fall in upon themselves. An aching chill slithered about wrists and ankles, gnawed upon the length of his back, and bade his arms to tremble, to surrender, to give up.

A wary glance for the struggling squire and nearly nonsensical Grand Master told him to lay down his arms would mean their death as well. A taut, wolfish scowl for the monster then. As the flames spilled about them, hemming them in against the front of the stooping structure, Storth found focus beyond the clashing steel and burning ruin around him.

Honor, he told himself. Honor.

[Kait]

The human mind is a wondrous thing, so apt to compatmentalize and deal with problems in such a way that sanity can usually be preserved. It is this ability that keeps the squire from asking questions, from replaying the details that add up to something being very wrong here. Somewhere within the young woman's mind lies the rationalization that there will be plenty of time for answers after she manages to save them both, and a whisper of doubt that suggests she might be much happier letting well enough alone.

The first wave of cold is such that she wonders if droplets of blood might be instantly frozen where they hang on subtle curves of pallid skin, and it is an interesting enough musing to occupy what portion of her thoughts might otherwise be lamenting the lack of a nice, thick pair of gloves. Narrow shoulders bear both the piercing cold and his weight with only a faint shudder of complaint that runs the length of her spine. "I'm working on it." It is not so very dark.

With a limp she moves toward the postern gate, one arm snuggly swung about her master's waist so he may remain upright while the ash blackened fingers of her other hand keep a tenuous grasp on the chilled hilt of her sword. There is no looking back to witness Sir Storth's struggle, because the young woman is quite sure it is a sight that would grip her heart with the same bleak fingers of cold that whisper to her muscles that it wouldn't be so bad just to take a short rest. She does not yeild to this temptation though, not with so precious a life in her grasp; with a final stumbling lurch she manages to press the gate shut behind them, pausing outside only long enough to cast a worried glance over her master -now her charge- before continuing through the snow away from the fiend and his fiery rage.

[Malaroth]

The Ashfiend proves a relentless foe. Where Osric at first stood on equal footing, he soon found himself retreating. Where he began attempting to strike at the monstrous creature, he found himself evermore on the defensive. Where he could make openings and exploit them he now found himself struggling against thundered steel to give himself space to breathe. As the 'Fiend edged him into the burning doorway of a ravaged structure, with smoke rolling over them, breath no longer became a real possibility.

Thick, black gouts erupted intermittently between the pair, hissing in strangled agony as the fumes tore across Teron's chilling frame. The villain's armored shape loomed darker than smoke and death before him, a monument to destruction aglow with an all-consuming furnace for a crimson gaze nestled deep within that shadowed hood. here could be no blade to stop him, no strength from mortal hands. He offered his enemy a taut grimace as his sword lashed out, not for the creature, but for the slouching, burning beams above the doorway as he backpedaled inside.

"Wisdom," he muttered as his blade connected and brought the wreckage down between them - sparing him from immediate demise even as the entire building rocked and groaned in a dawning doom.

Perhaps it would be enough time.

[Sherazade]

The grand master and squire were now safely away... Valaeli saw that... all that was left was osric and the fiend...... and her.... She could not leave, he had a pin on him and it was calling to her, calling to the master she wore and making the runes on her horn glow.

Arcane energies spilled from her as she noted OSric was tiring, was going to lose.....

"you can't have him fiend... he belongs to the order, belongs to me" Those words hissed from her lips, fell into the acrid air even as she began to change.

Pearlescent scales raced over her form spilling in a cascaded from her patched cheek, that spouted scaled sprays like water hitting rocks. Wings flared out from her form, and the tiny illarian gained bulk, began to grow. Fingers curled into talons, shapely thighs becoming muscled even as features changed towards the reptilian, the dragonic.

Before the change was even complete she sprang into the air, barreled across the space between her and the two combatants, the flames ignored. Turning with surprising aglility in the air she would seek to strike the fiend with her great tail even as taloned claws plucked osric from the ground.... and the moemnt he was within her grip ... wings beat hard and sought to carry them skyward.

[Lent]

Elliot Brown

Visibility was horrible by this point, difficult, nearly impossible. The squire had continued to tend to the dead. The honest truth of it, behind all rationalizations, no matter how true, about the importance of his work, was that he was too afraid to stand by Sir Storth's side here. What could he do against the Ashfiend except for get in the way, except for to die? He was a thirteen year old boy. At least this was a task that he could manage, no matter how upsetting it was. The Fiend would lose soldiers this day, not gain them, especially not in the midst of battle. No zombies arose behind their lines to doom them.

By the time that Storth began to battle the Ashfiend, by the time of Malaroth's plight, Elliot had been pushed just outside to chase after a newly created corpse. Wreckage had blocked his passage back in the way that he came.

It was with both relief and confusion that he saw Storth up in the air. It would be the last thought he would have for a good while, for a moment later he would pass out from his own injuries, mainly burned, but that very damaged spirit did not help matters.

[Malaroth]

The Ashfiend is a dark stain amongst the burning wreckage, its pulsing, cancerous center amidst the churning, smoking ruin. The powerful wings that bear him aloft fill his ears with their steady, rolling power as the ground grows increasingly further away. Frantically he glances about, spying tail , scales and the great span of draconic wings. It is a great confusion that settles upon his mind, squeezing with a heavy hand, as he takes in monster and savior, ruin and sky - and dragon - all at once.

The world below spins as murder and battle set it upside down, even a hard mind and cool heart given to avowed silences. Beneath him panoramas unfold in dream-like beauty, rolling at the edges with the clash of past battles, fallen soldiers, and the ringing sound of defeat. A cool sweat seizes him, empathy for his master, and pity for himself - fear for those left behind even as he saw their diminutive shapes begin to fly from the opposite side of the compound.

Save for one.

"Below," he cries, gesturing madly towards the figure that claims his knees. Horror seized his heart with an icy talon, rending hope from flesh, life from breath, at the ill luck that would have him watch his squire succumb - should it turn out to be the poor lad. "Below, another falls! To him, quickly!"

On the edge of his mind, peering down into a burning oblivion and at a dragon's mercy, his lips part in a silent, quivering cry voiced only in a strangled exhalation.

"Let it not be him, o gods. But if it be, let us get to him in time."

[Sherazade]

His fear for the other washed through her even as he gestured wildly, as he said that single word... *I'll need both talons then* it would be a whisper, a soft delicate touch within his mind in a very familiar voice. It was also the only warning he would get before powerful foreleg moved, talon releasing him into the air, to arc over her back.

[Glenn]

Elliot Brown

It was very possible that there were squires who took quickly and enthusiastically to the mandatory magic lessons. It was very possible but Elliot did not KNOW any of them, nor did he know of their existence. Perhaps those few who came with knights from Trae Kelsa or overseas, but they tended to go in different circles than the Myrkenborn, even still.

At this moment, however, having pulled one body after the next into the flames, with the Ashfiend looming, Elliot would take the magic user. He would take whatever sort of rescue he could get, even from her, even from a DRAGON. The boy, afraid as he was, would freeze as he stared up at the beast. If it were to snatch him up, so be it.