RP Session 4: "A Halfday's Ride

Corson snatches up his blade from the ground and moves up to the Tracer... Executing a feint, the squire reverses his grip and tries to come up on the Tracer's blindside!

Ogre's hooves scuffed the Spiderfell's dry forest floor as Lan pulled on the reins, twisting his mount around as the goblin backtracked, obeying the priests demand. He leaned out of the saddle as he thundered down on the last enemy, swinging his crow's bill like a mallet in the Khinasi game of chovgan, imported to Anuire as polo...

And swung high, missing the goblin's hunched head by a mile.

With the last of their opponents cornered and compelled to stay put, Tovrunn began to maneuver her sphere of hot fiery death towards the goblin leader. However, a horn to the south turned her mood sour. There were more coming.

"Cut him loose!" She shouted, piloting her conjured flame south and using it to form a trench of fire, pushing it first into the gnarled tree to the left before dragging it along the ground to catch as much of the brush as she could. There was no going back that way now; better to set it alight and run.

She did snap a second, smaller flame alight and toss it the goblins way as she retreated however. A parting gift, she thought ruefully.

Ser Lancaelad grimaced as his blow missed the devilishly well-armoured goblin. "Your scuttling master's favour will not save you!"

He glanced over his shoulder as the horn sounded through the woods, a low and mocking rumble that stirred the branches. The other goblins had raised a hue and cry against the invaders. Fear etched itself across his face at the thought of the Spider's entire host descending on them. "My lady! Corson! Rhoderick! Back to your mounts! I will hold this one," he panted, driving Ogre in a tromping half-circle to try and block the tracer from the others.

Corson salutes the Tracer and takes a measured retreat to his horse...

With a frustrated growl the Neserite swings one last time at the Tracer, the heavy mace crunched into the Tracer’s body with a sickening thud before Rhoderick was turning and moving back to his mount with a glare for the foul creature.

Gasping in pain Rhoderick staggered towards his mount, his eyes flashed white once more as he spat a rebuke at the wiry Tracer, that curse became a thunderous, concussive force that then wracked the wiry Goblin’s body in retribution

The sound of shattering skull was lost in the actinic flash and boom of Rhoderick's revenge, even as Ogre reared back with dark, wet hooves. Lancaelad gave an exultant laugh, throwing his arm across his eyes to ward off the brightness.

"Struck with the Stormlord's own fury, Brother Rhoderick! Lady of the Seas be proud!" he cried, dropping heavily from the saddle. He grimaced, the fresh bruise under his armour where the glaive had jabbed wrenching pain across his flank, but he ignored it and stooped to peer at the downed spider-rider. Smoke, dust, and the queasy smell of roasted spider and broiled gnoll-fur filled the clearing.

"Such a telling blow deserves a trophy, and this swine is to meagre a fellow to warrant such a fine coif of maille. Help me strip it from him."

"Throw the body over my horse. We can strip him later," the stoic squire offers as he mounts his horse and moves closer to Lancaelad.

As Corson rode over to the knight and the Tracer’s corpse Rhoderick hurried to his steed.

Wincing he mounted and with a quick prayer to the Storm Mother the Neserite priest closed his wound and made ready to leave

Corson nods to Rhoderick. "Use your healing magicks on who you think will need it most. I have some of the berries of the Mother, as well..."

Pausing by Corson the Neserite assessed his wounds, he grasped his shoulder briefly and his eyes flashed white once more.

"We must rely on strength of arms until I rest." He nods towards Tovrunn. "Although the Lady is more than capable in that regard."

Corson tosses a small pouch of berries. "Munch on these while we ride... It'll reinvigorate you."

Lan was about to countermand Corson, but at the last moment and with a glance at the crackling cinders decided there was merit in being away from here with haste. Hopefully the goblins did not have tracking wolves that would enable them to stay on the scent of the rank corpse of one of their own, he thought as he hoisted the limp body up and over the back of the squire's saddle.

He leaped up into Ogre's saddle himself, and cast one more look south towards where the horns had sounded. Then he spurred the warhorse and began pressing to the north, gesturing for Salien and the rest to follow. "In all the maps I have studied, I have never never heard of a gorge along the border of Endier and the Spiderfells. It must give way to level ground eventually. Let us make haste!" He popped a berry into his mouth as he rode, feeling a rush of nourishment in his bruised chest and leaden limbs.

Ser Lancaelad's hope that there might be a clear path through the spider-haunted woods to Endier was quickly dashed as they burst through the thick trees and saw the gorge yawning to their flank. And his eyes widened in alarm as he saw the goblins scampering to take up position on the far side – assaulting an uncrossable moat, through barricades that slowed and broke a charge, against archers in fortified positions. It was a cavalryman's nightmare. The Spiderfell might lack castles, but the very land seemed to twist and warp to provide for the awnshegh's defence.

Lan pulled hard on Ogre's reins, bringing the beast to a skidding, snorting, indignant halt. He swallowed, pale from fear as much from the bruises and jabs he had sustained. The only escape was through; back or surrender was a more certain death than broaching the gorge. Trying to muster his bravery in the face of necessity he turned and looked back at his companions. "We must ask no quarter, and grant none, for they will not! Defeat or capture means being bound in silken garottes and dragged before the black lord of this evil land, and he will eat the very hearts from our chests and drink the divine blood from our veins!"

"My lady," he looked at the star-speckled form of his afianced. "Father Rhoderick. If the gods will yet hear any of your prayers, say them now, or trust in your skill at arms. Adalric, linger back until we engage, but do not tarry overlong. Squire Corson, with me!"

He was breathing so hard that he could not find the wind to utter his family battle-cry, but as he spurred Ogre into a gallop he pulled the bottle gifted to them by the Bjordings from his belt, tore the cork out with his teeth and swallowed it in one gulp. The liquid struck like lightning through his veins, lifting some of the exhaustion and pain from him. Maybe this was winnable after all, he thought with a spark of renewed morale. He tossed the empty bottle and lifted his shield as Ogre thundered along the edge of the precipice towards the foot of the web-bridge, gritting his teeth for the rain of arrows that must be winging towards him...