RP Session 1: "A Hart's Errand"

"Fresh idea? How about running??" Tovrunn shot back verbally, not yet used to merely thinking a response. There were too man of their enemies, and her allies, brash and foolhardy as they were, seemed terribly interested in abandoning what cover they had in favor of clashing swords.

Men.

Having had quite enough of the chaos that surrounded them, Tovrunn lifted the crystal she kept hanging from a thong about her neck, shifting it in midair until the captured starlight flickered to life. Letting go of it as it suspended itself before her, the displaced druids hands formed arcane symbols on either side as the light grew and then somehow rippled outward like a stone tossed into a still pond. As the light passed over her, something strange occurred; to those paying attention in the midst of pitched battle, it would seem as though Tovrunn's skin had been replaced with the night sky. And then suddenly as light pierced forth in the dull gray drizzle of the docks, she became far harder to ignore. Her eyes became moonlight, her joints shone like stars, her hair floated as though suspended in water, painted by the soft milky white light of the galaxy.

Seemingly heedless of this sudden transformation, Tovrunn coolly reevaluated the battlefield, deciding her next course of actions. Lifting her arm, with one brightly lit finger she traced the constellation of The Hunter on her forearm, ending the bow-like tracing with a bright streak towards the palm of her hand, as though the hunter had loosed an arrow at a target. As she did so the light solidified, as though it were plucked out of the sky by some fae hand, and formed a miniature version of the projectile. A dozen copies sprang to life and wrapped themselves around her forearm, waiting patiently to be used.

Nodding in satisfaction, Tovrunn turned her attention to the thugs who had loosed crossbow bolts at her beloved. "Sir Lancaelad! Sir knight! We must retreat!" she shouted, even as she focused the two thugs blocking their retreat in her mind. They must be removed if they were to survive. "Wēta fylgð ljós!" she shouted, tracing symbols again. Light again burst forth from her hands, searing and painful to behold, and shot forth towards one of the two enemies, leaving streaks in the after vision of those who witnessed it. Turning and drawing her arm as though she were pulling at the string of a bow, one of the arrows sprung away from her arm and lengthened, becoming an arrow of light which she loosed at the brigand that the mysterious knight now fought with before ducking down again behind the crate.

"We bring down the other one, and then we run," she said to her companions, both the sidhe and their charge. "We can't stay here."

A glittering bolt of light shot a few yards past Lancaelad's shoulder, making him flinch and glance back at the source. When he saw it – her – his jaw fell open.

Tovrunn's eyes were silver flame, her skin indigo and black swirls studded with intricate webs of diamond stars. She was like an avatar or Ruornil, like the mysteries of the night sky given form. Beautiful, the thought dimly crossed his mind before the clamour of battle drew him back to the moment.

Her words pierced his consciousness and he looked around swiftly at the other kninght holding his own down the pier, the enemies scattered on all sides. They had shed more blood than they had lost, but this was a forlorn hope of a battle. The brash, but not foolhardy, young man clung to Tovrunn's cry of retreat as a lifeline. It was the sensible course of action, and the fact that she had called for it, not him, would let him hold on to his dignity when there was a call to accounts.

"We must protect our charge!" he roared in agreement. "To me, Salien! To me, Lady Tovrunn! Lord Aeric! I shall clear the path!" Lancaelad turned and fixed his attention on the remaining man by the barricade. Lunging forward, unencumbered by a shield, Lancaelad grasped the haft of his weapon in both hands and swung the hooked metal spike in a crescent arc at the ruffian's chest. The man was able to step inside the blow just enough that he took the bruising force of the haft against his shoulder instead of the bill to the heart, huffing in pain. Lancaelad hissed through clenched teeth and whipped the weapon back to repeat its accusation, but a counter-stroke from the ruffian was able to parry the blow.

But... hold a moment. The young knight suddenly remembered an observation Aeric had made to him, that he sometimes over-committed on his swings, leaving himself Open. Normally he would have dismissed such advice from an unseasoned warrior such as Aeric, but in that instant Lancaelad saw the ruffian had pushed too far into the parry, leaving him arm extended in a way that made it impossible for him to turn the knife he held quickly. Lancaelad took that mistake and stepped into it, catching the flat of the enemy's blade on his maille-armoured flank where it could do no harm, and bringing his weapon down a third time in as many heartbeats in a far more confident blow that drove the spike into the ruffian's collarbone with a gout of crimson. "There you are," he spat in the man's face.

Breuddwyd peeked around the corner of his grimy wooden bastion, noticing quickly that another enemy was closing in, poised between himself and the unknown soldier.

"Newid safleoedd," he murmured, wrestling the unseen, writhing tangle of corrupting enchantment off the smoldering corpse and affixing it to the next lucky recipient before lashing out with punitive flames. Treachery and woe were the gifts that kept on giving, uncooperative as they could be in transit. "Adain dân."

It was a funny angle.

A wicked whimsy caught him then and, in his cold and distinctly Sidheaccented tone—with just a hint of unfathomable fey malice—he told his allies, "Mind you leave one alive for after. My kin would surely savor weeding out the sins that drove them here." In ordinary circumstances, he would be reluctant to play on the parochial superstitions and misinformation regarding elves that seemed to plague human society. But if that same ignorance might be used to sway matters in their favor now, who was he to balk at the opportunity? Content that crates alone would cover his slender form from attack, he rose to a crouch, sensing that this spot could not keep him safe forever.

Aeric smiled as the thugs continued running after the image. It had served its purpose well. Only a powerful group would have the gall to attack Roesone nobility at the docks in broad daylight, and the hired thugs would most likely be terrified of reporting failure. Hoping to utilise the fear of losing sight of their quarry to his advantage, Aeric ceases the image to exist once he is further under the wharf, out of sight of the mercenaries, and turns his attention to the ongoing battle.

The numbers were still against them, despite the bravery of Lancaelad and Adalric's escort. He was impressed by the carnage Breuddwyd and Torvunn created through their arcane aptitude, yet using magic for killing never had interested Aeric. He decided to try evening the numbers further, by taking what he perceived to be their leader out of the picture, via muttering the incantions which would induce a magical slumber. Witnessing the predicament Adalric's escort was in, he shouts "Just hold them back! They no longer outnumber us, and they sure do not outmatch us!"

Corson's mind raced, taking in all of his new allies' chatter. Hold ground... Retreat... Which is it?

The stalwart squire decided that reducing the number of opponents was more important and slapped his blade at the man's head!

Adalric looked between Tovrunn and Breuddwyd, wide eyed. "What in Cuiraécen's name is going on?" he yelped, seemingly still in shock at the sudden conflict. "What do they want?"

The bolt slipping past her armor and leaving red streaks of pain on her arm caused Tovrunn to gasp and cry out. There was no doubt about it; this was a fight for survival. One they might not win.

"You, apparently," Tovrunn said to Adalric, glaring at the man who had shot at her and preparing an arrow of her own when he stopped in his tracks and fainted as though poisoned by the smell of dream-ointment. "Find your feet and get ready to run. But stay close; there could be more."

Looking about the docks-turned battlefield, Tovrunn did her best to predict the tides and eddies of the battle. But things were moving too fast, the changes happening quickly and unexpectedly. One thing was clear though; these men chased their charge. Perhaps there was enough there to end this quickly.

"We can't stay here," she repeated to the wide-eyed man. "I will draw their attention. Breuddwyd, Adalric, cross the open and get to Lancaelad. Go!" Sparing a glance down at their other lordling below them on the dock, Tovrunn shouted, "What are you doing Aeric?! RUN!!"

With that she stepped away from her cover, crossing the docks towards where Lancaelad fought the corner of the building and launching another glowing missile as she did so, hoping to bring down the ruffian that threatened her betrothed and give the man a moment's respite.

"Sir knight! We must flee! Your charge is what matters not these men's blood!" she shouted at Adalric's guardian, and muttering a spell under her breath.

"Yhhh -"

The wind was knocked clean out of Lancaelad's lungs by the blow, and his avoidance of the follow-through was more reeling chance than intentional dodge. It felt as if the chain links of his hauberk had been hammered into his flesh, and it required a visceral effort to suck the briny, fish-stained air of the docks into his chest again. The man fought like a gutter cur, with none of the poise of the melee field, but he was undoubtedly effective.

"You knave! You dare strike one of the blood!?" the young knight wheezed, his face mottled as he gasped and fell back a pace or to to regain his composure. Let the man think he was retreating; Lancaelad would meet his advance head on and show him who was the superior. Forcing a deep breath and gathering his strength, he cried out: "For the Black Hart and the Hawk!" The beasts of Roesone and House Noelon gave him renewed vigour, and he swung his crow's bill at the oncoming brute. His mark saw the blow coming and stopped short, turning a decisive strike into a mere scratch.

Crouched down by the crates, the sudden splintering impact easily knocked Breuddwyd off his feet and sent him sprawling on the planks. For an instant, images of twisted, testudinal fey horrors danced behind his eyes, shelled pixie-things not meant to be viewed in daylight. And he felt a tortoise himself, not so agile as many of his kin and momentarily defenseless once supine. He was too surprised to even utter an elegant Sidhelien curse.

Righting himself quickly, he knew it was past time he followed the northern woman's directive. Rising, he similarly retreated but then scarcely paused before rushing to the other side of the wharf and dropping low once more to offer Aeric assistance in reclaiming the higher ground.

"Time to elevate your thinking, trickster," Breuddwyd called down wryly but not unkindly, reaching out with both hands to provide some leverage. "This welcome party's well and truly played out, it is."

Corson assumed a defensive stance, raising his shield as he withdrew.

Aeric cursed as he realized his little jig was coming to an end. The Brutes had found out the duplicitous nature of the image he had created, and the nearest person to the Brutes was none other than himself, utterly unprepared for close quarters combat in his current circumstance. Thankfully, the loyal companion of the Sidhe seemed to be causing trouble for one of them.

As he pondered what his next move would be, he saw Breuddwyd offering his assistance and immediately grabbed his hand to climb out of the lower wharf. "Many thanks, and agreed, let's get out of here before those brutes head back." he replied, as he unsheathed his rapier and began running.

As soon as Aldaric's bodyguard was clear, Tovrunn let her spell burst forth, slamming a palm to the wood of the dock. Small curling green sprouts sprang to life from the dead, fractured boards and traced beneath the knights feet before exploding forth in a burst of magically induced growth about his assailants legs and arms. Vines and thorns grew froth from the wood beneath their feet, as though the boards of the docks suddenly remembered the strength of the trees that gave them birth and now sought revenge against those who desecrated their corpses.

Turning in satisfaction to continue the retreat, Tovrunn's blood ran cold as she saw her knightly husband-to-be fall at the hands of the brute that he had battled against. "Lancaelad!"

Hurrying to his side, she spoke words of healing and life to him, and then turned to the bandit that felled him with vengeance in her eyes. Snapping to life a small handful of flame, she threw it at the man in retribution.

Adalric seemed at least to know when to follow instructions. Sprinting through the gap he pressed his back against the wall of the warehouse and looked between Tovrunn and the gradually recovering Lancaelad. Unarmed he'd be little better than worthless should the fight corner them here. The temptation to turn over their charge and fight another day was strong, but with even their fishing vessels the ambushers could be in Diemed by sunset. And with such determined opposition, failure in their assignment was beginning to look like more than mere reprimand might compensate.

Corson seemed impressed by the sudden intrusion of nature on the docks, and with a smile withdraws to join the others, backing away at first, making sure everyone had made it past him, then turning to pursue.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man was king. Roesone must not be the land of the blind, then, for Ser Lancaelad did not feel very regal.

The snap of the cudgel came from seemingly nowhere as the young knight winced back, his eye contorted around the grime from the thumb that had been rammed into it. That was perhaps a small mercy – very small – for it spared him any sense of foreboding. There was merely an impact that pushed Aebrynis sideways; the feeling of his teeth smashing together; the brine and mud slicked cobbles knocking the breath from him again.

Lancaelad wheeled in darkness for what felt like hours, days, but in reality were mere heartbeats as Tovrunn rushed to his side. In the ringing black of his concussion he felt rather than heard the words she spoke, but they wrenched him back into the light. The taste of blood filled his mouth. The links of his maille cut into his skin where the padding had become disarrayed by his fall. The commotions of battle rolled in like the tide, and the plants of the piers and walkways seemed to writhe as the Golden Prowl ground against them and something uncanny made them claw at the assailants of their own volition.

He looked up as the daze cleared from his eyes, and saw the figure above him shining brighter than the morning sun. Her silver-gold tresses gleamed like the moon on a clear night, and her eyes were as clear and luminous as starlight. "Like an angel," he murmured in wonder, his teeth scarlet and tongue thick.

Gathering what little wits he possessed, Lancaelad rolled onto his knees and pushed himself upright, biting down on a groan of pain. His crow's bill had not scattered far from his hand and his picked it up, shrugging his shoulders to shift his shield from his back to his arm, quickly tightening the straps. "Shield and helm," he grunted. "A knight's stout left hand and crown. Never forget again." Heaving to his feet, he grabbed Adalric Salien by the shoulder and shoved him towards Tovrunn. "Brenna's speed, you fool!"

Tottering forward, towards the man who had laid him low, Lancaelad took a breath. "For the Black Hart and the Hawk!" he repeated shakily, squinting, raising his shield and letting the point of his weapon scrape across the cobbles in a warning rasp.