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18+ When Gods Fall

Discussion in 'Active Stories' started by Harkatti, Jun 11, 2018.

  1. Alty

    Alty Caw Caw

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    Morthaine was certain that her heart had reached its final stage of solid and still when the first bolt signalled fight or flight. She stared boldly at the stiff, threatening bolt that marked the ground, and her lungs urged her chest to decompress. She visibly had not recoiled, though her innards were telling otherwise. Breath was rammed out of her very being, so harshly forced that her vocals clicked. Her feet made their strike to the field without a single cue from her own brain, relying fully on muscle memory. Only when an arrow hurtled for her whisking form did her mentality finally activate.

    There was no time to stumble from her dead run. She evaded the dart, a trick that involved pivoting on her foot to drive her weight forwards and under, and her rapid sprint was revived. Shortly did her feet collide with the hinges of the gate, hitching herself upwards and level with the ranged attackers, but not without all the grace she could manage. A choice made by one look at the pair of mages, the imperial, and the nord with the massive sword. Her first target was advanced in archery, a skill she never developed but definitely countered. She was diving for her opponent, the twig of an arrow ricocheting off her reflective brace, a chance taken wisely as her other palm flattened against the hilt of a kunai into the shoulder. Blood curved in the air as it was yanked only to shank a cheek, not of the same target.

    She had alternated between two, both laying dead with less ammo than when they approached, and her next prey was of the same class. She was slamming birds to the ground one by one by the salvaged arrows in her talons, and by her fifth target did her ears burn in irritation and panic. She was taking caution in the spellcasters approaching. What would be her luck this time? Amongst her caws and grunts ripped a cry, interrupting her focus on the magic-wielders, as a dagger slithered about her right bicep. Her own cry. By the sky if she wasn't going to isolate the hand from it's very limb- her sword unsheathed with a wicked graze to the scabbard, ringing with threats and promises as she spun under a blow for her head and drove Risktaker into the underside of a jaw.
     
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  2. TheArgonianDrell

    TheArgonianDrell Well-Known Member

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    Argus sighed quietly as the woman dashed ahead of the group. She'd refused to follow his instructions, and dashed on ahead, scaling the walls like the lizards of Black Marsh. But even as she broke ranks, she did what their group was supposed to; draw arrow and spell fire from the fighters on the ground. "Follow!" Argus hissed at the others, and made for the wall at sprint. He'd already calculated his route, and made adjustments for the projectiles that whizzed towards him. If the full attention of the wall sentries had been directed towards the group he was a part of, they'd have been shredded in moments. But the hooded womans' arrival in their midst, and before that, the charge of the first group had distracted them.

    He made contact with the wall, and immediately his hands and feet went to work, snatching hand holds and placing his feet in toe holds with the surety that came with years of experience. In mere moments he was atop the wall, swinging his body over the parapets one handed, as his other hand secured itself around the haft of his weapon. He drew it from the leather holster on his back, and performed a high slash, driving back a pair of masked men who were making for the nord womans unguarded back. The men hesitated- they'd dropped their bows in favour of maces, and Argus' staff outranged them by a substantial amount. With a gentle smile, which, to be fair seemed much more menacing on his kind than a human, he gestured the robed pair closer.

    With twin battle cries, the men charged, weapons raised to crush their foes skull. A quick jab from the curved blade atop his staff sent one man stumbling back, a shallow gash on his right shoulder. The second man, seeing the argonian stretched out, apparently in no position to defend himself, shouted triumphantly. But the staff was not Argus' only weapon. A decade of training had honed his body into a weapon in its own right. His left foot snapped up, the heel of his boot caught the base of the mans' chin. A painful blow, to be sure, but not lethal. Then, Argus didn't need it to be lethal, as the masked mace wielder soon discovered. With a strangled scream, he fell from the wall, and landed with a wet crunch.

    The wounded man, spat a curse, and rushed his argonian oppenent, but once more, Argus was faster, taking a half step back, he looped his staff around his body, transferring the haft to his free left hand, and performed another high slash, this one connecting with his attackers throat, and opening a crimson gash. Mace toppling from his fingers, the dying human fell face first a full metre from him. Stepping around the fallen man, he took a two handed grip on the weapon, and searched for more challengers.
     
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  3. Morbidbread

    Morbidbread Fight for the lost

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    Karon charged into the courtyard, his armor clanking as he moved. His longsword clutched in both hands, he approached the large group of the robed and masked men who were fighting the nord Beran, and the altmer womans' imperial bodyguard. Their backs were to him, and if he'd been an assassin, he would have taken full advantage of the situation. However, his code of honor prevented him from doing something so underhanded. Instead he drew in a breath and shouted "cowardly dogs! Turn and face me!" A pair of the masked and robed defenders paused and turned, one wielding a long spear, the other a short sword. Most men would hesitate when confronted with a heavily armored knight. Not these two. The one with the spear rushed forwards, a battlecry on his lips, the other following up behind him and brandishing his sword.

    The knight brought his sword up in a two handed high guard, and bided his time. When he judged the time was right, he brought his sword down, angling his wrists so that the flat of the blade struck the haft of the spear, forcing it down. With his weapon in a dominant position, Karon slashed upwards, his swords keen edge easily parting the mans' head from its shoulders. By the time the headless corpse collapsed, the second man nearly on top of him, slashing with the shorter blade, spitting curses. Karon switched to a more fluid one handed style, parrying several blows from the masked enemy. After exchanging several blows, one of which scored a long scratch along the bretons' breastplate, the knight finished the fight with a low slash that opened up the mans' thigh. As he stumbled, the breton stepped back, before lunging and sending his blade through the pathetic protection his enemies' robes offered and into his heart.

    Freeing his blade, Karon looked around. The battle was still in full swing, and the second group had gained the walls, disrupting the enemy archers and spellcasters. He saluted them with his blade before moving to reinforce the nord and imperial pair still embattled deeper into the courtyard. Moving quickly for one so covered in armor, he intercepted an axe wielding zealot, and cut him down in three swift strokes. If the battle continued like this, they might not even need the assistance of the altmer sorceress and her masked companion. "Fight on, comrades! For Tamriel! For the Living!"
     
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  4. Simus

    Simus An Excellent Site Member

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    Elspeth charged into the chaos of Fellglow Keep’s courtyard but she stayed behind the assault team. Some of the team such as Beran and their Altmer leader’s servant were faster than her but there was also no one watching their backs. The excitement of the triggered fire trap outside the keep and the second team scaling the walls had everyone focused on the front. Their leader had struck down a crossbowman with lightning but had failed to do so with a mage due to a timely ward spell. That mage was now directing two of his comrades from the top of the gatehouse in support of those down below. The Argonian assassin and the masked girl Elspeth had met yesterday were on the walls to the group’s right but had their hands full with the archers already there. More were assembling on the walls to the group’s left and would soon be in firing range of the courtyard’s combatants. With the combined power of these archers and mages and their own mages too distracted to help Elspeth was the only one free to do something about it. She wasted no time, charging into the back of the melee and running a robed man through the spine with her longsword. The burning blade came out through his stomach and leaked boiling drops of blood down onto his shirt. The dagger he was about to stab Karon in the back with fell from his hands as he collapsed and died. All of this took place in mere seconds and Elspeth did not stop to celebrate her victory. The heavy wooden door leading to the gatehouse was still open and she charged up to stop the fire the group was taking. One of the ward mage’s guards, a large robed man with a skull mask, a dagger and a frost spell, turned to face the doorway when he heard her heavy footsteps. He let loose his frost spell and a blast of supercooled air and water filled the doorway. Elspeth blocked with her shield, its enchantments protecting her from the cold, and pushed through the frozen deluge. She wasn’t moving fast enough to bash him so she settled for a quick thrust at his shoulder to break his concentration. He tried to parry with his dagger but missed by a wide margin and the new wound in his shoulder caused him too much pain to concentrate on his spell. The ice and water stopped as quickly as it started and Elspeth was free to do her holy work. One quick stroke with her sword took his head clean off. His body fell off of the walls and landed on his head, right next to the crossbowman the Altmer woman had already killed.

    This left Elspeth with her primary target. The mage turned to face her and readied a sword. He had nowhere to run with the third mage still behind him and several meters of sheer drop to either of his sides so he knew the quickest way out was through. The fact that he was greatly outmatched was entirely inconsequential to him. His initial warcry was a surprise to Elspeth and he was of a strong build but he had little experience with the blade he was holding. He tried using it like a meat cleaver, bashing against her shield in an attempt to break her guard. All it did was tire him out though and as soon as his blade slackened Elspeth violently raised her shield away from her, knocking the man’s sword out of his hand and over the walls in front of the gate. Now weaponless he tried to cast a spell to save himself but he was doomed. Elspeth brought her shield back down and used its rim to smash into the side of his neck, breaking it with a sickening crunch. His body fell limply off the wall Just as the first had. Seeing all of this the third mage lost heart and ran. He didn’t get far before Elspeth slashed across his back and he fell flat on his stomach. Her pointed ebony boot crushed his head as she carelessly walked over him, leaving him to bleed out. She had been utterly silent during all of this and remained so as the remaining archers and mages charged around the wall towards her. She stood ready between the towers of the gatehouse, waiting to send the all to Stendarr’s embrace.
     
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  5. TheShadedOne

    TheShadedOne The Angry One

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    Miraska wasn't the first through the gates, but she had no problems with that. Ahead of her, the tall woman in all black charged up through the gatehouse door and to the top of the wall. The khajiit warrior took a more direct path, and plowed directly into the rear of the mob of robed men assaulting the members of the group already in the courtyard.

    She was heavy for a khajiit, and the heavy armour she covered herself in only helped with that. One of the poor souls at the rear of the group heard her booted feet, and turned in time to have a fully armoured khajiit woman smash into him with all the momentum she'd built up in her charge. The flattened man wheezed as he struck the ground, down but not out of the fight.

    With her momentum gone, she stopped and swung her axe into a second mans side, the blow splintering ribs and digging into his lungs. He joined his friend on the ground, red froth on his lips. With the massive nord, the breton knight, and the imperial swordsman engaged with the rest of the robed defenders, Miraska looked up to see how her sister and the group on the wall were doing.

    Nirjha was nowhere near as reckless as her sister. Being a mage, she was vulnerable to a sword or arrow as much as the robed men they fought. Climbing up the wall after the masked woman and the staff carrying argonian, she jumped down in a spot that wasn't currently occupied by flying blades, arrows, or fists and brought a simple flame spell to her hand.

    While most of their attention was on the more capable fighters both on the wall and in the courtyard below, one of them spotted the robed khajiit and shouted, hefting a long dagger. Distance and magic were on her side and she blasted him in the face with a long gout of flame. The man screamed, but instead of attempting to save himself or flee, he rushed forwards, flailing blindly with his blade.

    The flames had caught onto his robes, and the stench of burning fabric, flesh and hair filled the air. The fireball on legs charged in Nirjha's general direction, but she was no fool. She stepped aside quickly, and the man, blinded by pain and fire, kept charging, clear off the edge of the wall. His screams ended with a heavy thud as he hit the ground.
     
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  6. Signus

    Signus Active Member

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    Andros was the last of the assault group to make it through the gates. Not through any cowardice on his part, of course, but out of concern for the others. He was fully aware of the monster he was, and while the strength, speed, and lack of weariness worked to his advantage, disadvantages came with that. Namely, the thirst. He wasn't sure he'd be able to control himself once the blood started flowing. So he held back until the last of the group he was with had joined the fight. Then he rushed through the gate, axe in hand. The first man he was so focused on the clump of fighters across the courtyard he didn't even see the nord vampire before his head was tumbling from his shoulders. A second man shouted a challenge and started to turn towards Andros, bringing a longsword back over his shoulder, ready to hack down at the nord.

    Even in the midst of battle, Andros sneered at the mans sloppy technique. He easily sidestepped the attack, letting the aspiring corpse stumble by, off balance. Turning on his heel, the nord hacked low with his axe, the steel easily biting through the robe the man wore, and into his spine. He wrenched the weapon free as his inexperienced foe collapsed like a puppet that had its strings cut. A third came at him, more cautiously than his predecessor. The skull faced mask the man wore revealed nothing of his face, and Andros smelled no fear on him. Not some simple sellsword or bandit then. A man dedicated to a cause, though what cause would have a man wear robes, cover his face, and hole up in an isolated fort, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

    The man thrust cautiously with the shortsword he held, but he lacked the range, and both fighters knew it. Andros parried the attack, and swung low, cutting into the humans' leg just above the knee. The man cried out and would have fallen if not for the nords' gloved hand closing around his throat like a vice. The thirst had reawoken, and was worse than ever, a blazing inferno in the back of his throat, demanding to be quenched with this poor fools' lifeblood. With a savage shake of his head, Andros resisted, crushing the mans throat and tossing him away. He could not afford to feed in plain sight. The knight and the inquisitor and the big man, Beran, might accept him for now, but if he revealed his true nature, they would no doubt cut him down without a second thought. As far as he knew, only the masked woman atop the wall was aware of his vampirism. And she was too busy fighting to give his secret away.
     
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  7. Alty

    Alty Caw Caw

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    The lesion in her right was begging mercy, but Morthaine was merciless, even to herself. The pain would be irritating if the assassin wasn't so immersed in her greed for death. Naturally, she channeled the weakness elsewhere on the body, if she wasn't to abandon the feeling all together. Her veil was beginning to get sticky with spit and sweat, perhaps even blood on the exterior. She could do nothing of it but disregard the filthy feeling, especially when an axe made for her legs.
    She sprung before her shins could be marred, her toes abreast as she tucked her legs, short-lived as her heel bashed into the center of her opponent's thin mask. She quickly snapped the leg back as to not land gracelessly. The man reeled, and Morthaine used that gain by rolling her feet to their frontmost pads to effectively penetrate the area below the sternum with her sword - the force of her full body behind the hilt. Her eyes were already at her back before her sword was unsheathed from the opponent's slack body. She immediately noticed Argus. She did not think to set a reminder to express her gratitude later.

    With the worries of her back settled, she veered to her last position. In those few seconds, nothing got within range to initiate close combat. She fluently sheathed her sword and spurted up a stony cylinder of the fort where the snipers would have the advantage. With most of the combat inside the walls, she opted for her back to face the barren landscape with her chin towards the stones as she knocked herself higher, until her feet met level ground. Here, she was greeted by the back of an arbalist. She considered the nearby stairs for later.

    She charged, swerving her path so her target would teeter to their left instead of straight off the ledge. To ensure success in her tackle, she firmly pushed against the crossbow with her right palm. It clattered against the rock; the grip on it had loosened out of surprise as her victim's cheek collided with a rough ground. She heard teeth clack. The air was hopefully knocked from their body when she pushed off of her target to retrieve the crossbow. She tossed the bow off the tower, just as the arbalist was balanced on their feet. There was hesitance evident as they eyed Morthaine.

    They intended on lunging for her, seemingly desperate for revenge. She kept her stance low, her fingers free of a weapon. She was roughly grabbed, but they pushed against nothing as she maneuvered circularly. She used her opponent's own bodyweight to send them from the edge, her hands releasing their elbows. A missile of fire prevented her from witnessing the crossbowman flailing like a cat void of natural balance before plummeting.

    She dove for the stairs, tightening her muscles to prepare for the uneven surface. She needed to avoid collecting more scorch marks and holes. She was lucky enough to have landed in a room with nobody to stab (or get stabbed by). With her mind on the bolt of fire, she hastily ripped a wooden shield from a nearby dummy. It was all she had in the moment.

    Magic; her weakness, especially when the only barrier would be a few planks bound by rope. To face them head-on at the same level would be too risky with her condition; they knew where she was. She would have to dive for them. Her nose stung when it was reintroduced to the outside air.

    Her lungs were burning, and so where her ears. She snatched the cloth from her nose and her throat never felt more relieved. With her fingers gaining more calluses from her grip on the rough rope, she bounded to the edge before taking flight. Her target was marked for death. She almost kneed herself in the mouth as she shifted her entire form behind the shield. Gravity regained control. Morthaine felt the flames approaching her faster than she fell, but the wind was taking pity enough to keep her armor's tails fanned behind her. She may have looked like a phoenix in the moment, but she would likely not rise from the ashes were she to become firewood.

    Her feet launched into a chest, and she bashed with the dummy's toy with all the might she had against her prey...
     
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  8. Screeching Spasmodically

    Screeching Spasmodically Spasmodic Screecher

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    Khajira was one of the last over the wall, but not by accident or sloth. Catching a crossbow bolt or fireball to the face wouldn't do wonders for her glorious khajiiti looks. With that in mind, she vaulted over the wall a good distance away from the others, guessing the defenders would have rushed to meet the attackers. That assumption nearly cost her an eye. Her boot scraped against some loose stone as she achieved the top of the wall, and the robed man waiting for her stabbed with a short spear. With a yowl of equal parts surprise and fear, the khajiit woman stepped back, her free hand clutching at the edge of the wall, her body's weight pulling her down. The masked man chuckled, stepping to the edge.

    Relief flooded her as her booted toes caught in one of the gaps in the wall. She hunched down, until her knee was almost at her chin, and only the tips of her free hand clung to the wall. When the face, framed by a hood appeared, the khajiit launched herself upwards, glaive leading in one hand. The blade of the weapon punched through the mans' throat as she made it back onto the wall. He didn't even have time for a scream, only choking around the cold steel of her weapon as Khajira scanned her surroundings for more foes. It appeared clear, with the rest of the wall-scaling group off to her right. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something that looked vaguely like a ball of flame plummet from a tower.
     
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  9. Harkatti

    Harkatti Sorceress Supreme!

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    Arenaya sucked in a breath as the flames died off, and stepped away from the masked wizard who'd bolstered her robes. She didn't express her gratitude beyond a slight inclination of her head. Stepping ahead of him, she brought her right hand up, letting the purple-white lightning crackle at the tips of her fingers. Once she actually stepped inside the courtyard, she realized how unnecessary the magic was. Besides a few isolated fights at the edges of the courtyard and atop the wall, the battle was pretty much over. Robed and masked bodies lay throughout the courtyard, chopped and stabbed and bludgeoned and blasted by magic.

    But no more emerged from the main doors, and no bolts or magic came down from the wall. "Mistress." A quick glance to her right showed Cadrian approaching, wiping blood from his blade with a scrap of cloth. "Are you alright?"
    "I'm fine." The sorceress replied curtly, before nodding at the door. "Let's see what's inside, shall we? " She looked over at the knight and his fellows who'd been involved in cutting apart the bulk of the masked defenders.
     
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  10. Rell

    Rell Champion of Malacath!

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    Hallen sheathed his blade and looked around at the carnage on the wall. He'd accounted for a good amount of the hooded fighters himself, with a thrown knife or a slash of his sabre. Still, the amount of dead was....impressive. The sounds of fighting in the courtyard had died off, and looking down, the redguard saw an even greater number of corpses. "Gods..." he muttered, glad that he was on the 'good' side. He went from the few corpses he was sure he'd killed personally, and retreived his throwing knives, cleaning them carefully on the robes of the fallen. He climbed down to the courtyard, where the robed elf woman was looking to have someone be the first into the fort itself. He barked a short laugh, "yes, because I really would like to be charbroiled by whoever's waiting on the other side of that door."
     
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  11. TheShadedOne

    TheShadedOne The Angry One

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    Miraska rolled her eyes at the redguards' reply. The man seemed more concerned with keeping himself intact than he was with completing the task he'd been set. "Gods, get out of the way then." She stalked forwards, giving a body that was still twitching slightly a good kick on her way. She reached the door and adjusted her grip on her axe, grabbing hold of the fort doors' handle with her free hand. She set her shoulder against the door, and shoved it open, ready to yank it shut again if there really was someone waiting to melt her face off on the other side. As it turned out, she needn't of worried. The wide hall beyond the door was abandoned. Nothing stirred, not even a skeever. The khajiit warrior narrowed her eyes, peering into the darkest corners, ears straining to pick up any noise. Again, nothing. She knew she should have been relieved, but instead a shiver of apprehension crawled from the back of her neck, to the tip of her tail. "It's...empty." Trying to shake off her profound sense of unease, she looked over at the redguard. "See? Nothing to worry about."
     
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  12. Rafen

    Rafen Active Member

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    Beran lopped the head off of yet another charging lunatic, and when no others stood behind that one, the nord warrior lowered his greatsword. Corpses littered the ground of the courtyard, but he couldn't bring himself to feel much joy at their demise. "Fools" he muttered, glancing towards the wall. He froze as he counted the members of their party up there and didn't see the masked woman. While she was no friend of his, he didn't want her death on his conscience either. Before he could go searching for her, the khajiit in heavy armor opened the door the fort, and reported that it was empty. Almost immediately, that struck Beran as wrong. Very few people would fight so hard to protect nothing. Deciding to leave the masked woman to fend for herself- for now, at least, he joined her. "See? Nothing to worry about." The khajiit was saying to the redguard man. "Or," Beran said quietly, "there is something to worry about. Just out of sight."
     
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  13. Alty

    Alty Caw Caw

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    The body unconscious, Morthaine allowed herself to appear poised, granted she still gripped the sooted shield. Sparks populated the blackened surface, evolving to no more than an occasional flicker. Her faded boots were established next to the body for a solid five minutes, and the time was used to soothe the ache to fight. She focused on the prattle below with her ringing ears, the unsettled breaths of the masked mage riveting to her sight, and her shoulders undulating to fit her lungs.
    The mage could not even hope to just stumble from Morthaine's feat. The mage had crumbled to the ground, and left an easy passage from the edge of the shield to their chin. When Morthaine saw herself calm, she trustlingly abandoned the knotted planks, and gently (not timidly) detached the mask from her prey. The face showed many ages more than herself. She could almost spot a soul. She gandered from where she kneeled, estimating the number of dead bodies. This would be no exception.

    She towered once more, tails flittering as much as the shift would allow, and she caressed her blade with toughened fingers. The tooth crowded the valley of the collarbone. She paced forward once for better aim. The body threw its limbs when the beak of Risktaker scraped stone. Morthaine steadily followed the dulling eyes, and when the sight of a soul was eliminated, she evulsed the sword and cleaned it with the cloth of the mask.

    As Morthaine thought to join the band, she felt a pinch in her bicep. It was beginning to clot with infection inside. She patted her palms free of grime before dotting the wound with a pinky and tasting the blood herself. She guarded her back on the uneven stony wall, just out of sight of most of her comrades (not that she considered them comrades), appearing to resolve her two options of following and eyeing useless trophies or keeping guard outside. Perhaps she could walk off, but she thought that cowardice rather than mere abandonment.

    Trophies. Her gaze slipped to where she first entered. She counted the bricks on her way to the very corpse that only lived to scar her. Unraveling her arms from their cross over her chest, she traced the hilts of her knives. Only four. She knew she entered with five. Mindful of her arm, she plucked herself from her lean on the rounded structure, immediately whelmed with déjà vu as she checked for the missing kunai. She ripped it from the shoulder, unsurprised as the body made an insignificant jolt with her savagery.

    A few more bodies scanned, and there laid the successor of all her pursuers. Her right hand snagged the arm as she inspected the transfixion in the mandible of the man. She snorted, as if releasing her pride before she could bask in it. Her left hand flexed as she sawed through her opponent's right wrist with the ebony edge. The "trophy" was then hidden and neatly wrapped in the confines of her satchel until she decided its fate.

    She spied on the backs of the others, before deciding on a ledge below a narrow opening. An alternative. She swatted the dust from her nose before re-covering it. She prowled towards and into the window gap, managing to tug herself in sideways and rolling to her feet into the room of the highest floor. She listened for breathing.
     
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  14. Signus

    Signus Active Member

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    With the fighting done, Andros lowered his axe and adjusted his mask. It did a good job of concealing his features, but it was poor at keeping out the stench of blood. His mouth watered, and his throat burned. The thirst was getting out of hand, and if he didn't feed soon, he'd be as rabid as those dead things that had overrun Skyrim. With a disgusted snarl, more directed at himself than anyone else, he pressed forwards, towards the entrance the fort. The khajiit and the man, Beran, stood at the door, peering into the darkness beyond.

    Before he reached the pair, he halted, remembering the mysterious woman he'd encountered scaling Whiteruns' walls. He turned a slow circle, examining the faces of those nearest. The imperial swordsman, the breton knight, the redguard coward, a pair of khajiit, the black armored inquisitor, and the altmer sorceress, and the tall, masked wizard, and finally, the argonian with the strange weapon. No masked woman though. He scanned the faces of the dead, but all he could see were the robed, skull-masked defenders, hacked apart in the courtyard and upon the walls.

    Had she abandoned them? Turned craven at the moment of their victory? That made little sense to Andros. The woman was mysterious yes, not particularly courteous or accustomed to crowds, but a coward? She'd looked ready to fight both himself and Beran when they'd first met. 'Unless,' a small voice at the back of his mind whispered, 'she knows something we don't. Who sneaks over the walls in these troubled times, when the gates are open to the living?' That, Andros realized, was his hunters instinct kicking in. A bounty hunter didn't get very far if he didn't suspect everyone around him of being some level of criminal. But in times like these, exceptions had to be made.

    He decided she wouldn't simply run off. So where had she gotten to? And more importantly, why did he care? Was it because that she was the only one of their group who knew what he was? Did he want to keep an eye on her? Of course, if she wanted him dead, she merely had to shout the truth of his condition to his supposed companions, and he'd be surrounded. The knight and inquisitor would for sure seek to end his existence. Quite possibly the mages as well. The redguard didn't worry him. The swordsman would follow his mistresses command. Beran seemed too goodly to consider helping a vampire. The three khajiit and the argonian? They were harder to read. But if the shrouded woman sought his death, why had she kept quiet for so long?

    Perhaps, and he only considered this as a last resort, he wanted her around because she was such a mystery. Perhaps that was it. 'Or, Andros thought, perhaps I'm just getting sentimental in my old age, and want a friend.' He snorted at the ridiculousness of that idea. Getting close to people was a good way to get them killed. He continued his advance towards the fort interior, eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness. He'd made it nearly the length of the first corridor when he realized- he shouldn't have been able to see more than a couple of feet in front of him. No torches were lit, not even a candle to provide illumination. 'Fool!' He snarled to himself. "Would someone care to bring a light?" He called back to the others.
     
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  15. Morbidbread

    Morbidbread Fight for the lost

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    The battle was over, leaving masked corpses strewn across the courtyard or up on the walls. The outcome had never really been in doubt, once the group had breached the courtyard. The defenders fought with a fanatics' zeal, but they were poorly equipped and apparently hadn't been expecting such a competent group of adventurers to storm their hideout. Not that they'd fought any less hard to prevent them from reaching the fort itself. Which, now that the axe-wielding khajiit woman had opened the main door, revealing a darkened hallway and little else, seemed strange. While she snarked at the perhaps overly cautious redguard, the nord man named Beran corrected her, suggesting their might be something just out of sight.

    With the thought that the man might not be wrong, Karon cleaned his sword the robes of a fallen defender, but didn't sheathe it. He had seen firsthand how fast the undead could move, and had no desire to be caught off guard. The masked axeman was first inside, wandering the hall for several meters before stopping and calling for a light. The breton noticed the faint outlines of torch sconces along the walls, but none were lit. Odd, especially if the place was lived in. But Karon stepped forwards, and striking flint, lit one of the torches. A metre or two of corridor was lit by flickering orange light. Walking to the mans side, he said "Let us proceed, but be wary. We do not know what lurks beyond."
     
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  16. Rafen

    Rafen Active Member

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    With the knight and the masked bounty hunter ahead of him, Beran set his greatsword against his shoulder and stepped into the fort behind them. While he looked like an easy target, with his weapon resting against his shoulder, rather than held at the ready the exact opposite was true. He peered into every corner lit by the torch, and he maintained a tight grip upon the hilt of his sword, ready to chop down into any fool that jumped out at him. "This is wrong." His voice carried down the corridor, "who fights like fanatics to defend an abandoned fort?" The dark and the silence were beginning to get to the big warrior. He preferred honest combat to skulking around in the dark.
     
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  17. Rell

    Rell Champion of Malacath!

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    Hallen set his hands on his hips and glared at the heavily armored khajiit woman. At her words, the masked man ambled up, and proceeded to enter, without so much as lighting a torch. Next was the nord who looked like he was part troll, and the breton knight after him. The rogue heaved a dramatic sigh, before stepping forwards. "Oh, very well. If you're all determined to get yourselves killed or horribly mutilated, I might as well come along." He knew he stood a better chance of surviving if he stuck with them, rather than trying his luck out on the plains. There hadn't been any undead lurking around on the way to the fort, he'd be very surprised if the sounds of battle didn't draw them to the fort. He drew his sabre, sticking well within the light given off by the flickering torch.

    The light was dim as it was, and didn't extend to their feet, which were still covered in shadow. So of course Hallen stumbled over something hard and round. It clattered into the darkness, before striking the wall. Cursing under his breath, the redguard knelt to pick it up, half expecting a hidding skeever to take a chunk out of his hand. Luckily, he retrieved the object with everything intact. Lifting it, he realized it was an unused torch. Good luck, though it begged the question why it'd been left on the floor. Striking flint, he lit it, increasing the light the group carried. The group. Which was getting rapidly farther away. Hallen cursed again and trotted to catch up.

    "who fights like fanatics to defend an abandoned fort?" The massive nord was asking no one in particular. For his part, Hallen wasn't so sure the fort was abandoned. There could be more of those masked nutjobs waiting in ambush, holding back until they were trapped inside. Or maybe there was something worse. Something that the people in the courtyard had feared so much they'd rather fight to the death than retreat. "People with nothing to lose." The redguard rogue suggested, glancing over his shoulder, watching for the others. Or worse.
     
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  18. TheArgonianDrell

    TheArgonianDrell Well-Known Member

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    Argus took a moment to survey the carnage. He took no joy and little pride in killing the people that had so recently been defending the place. But they would not have offered him or his companions any mercy, if the situation was reversed. That much, he was sure of. He glanced to the base of the tower, where a pair of bodies had been entertwined. He'd seen the surly, masked woman leap from atop the wall, and had been impressed by her bravery. Though perhaps it was merely foolishness and bravado that had spurred her to make the leap. He certainly hadn't expected her to survive the fall. She made no attempt to rejoin the main group, instead making for an open window inside the keep.

    The argonian assassin narrowed his eyes and moved to follow, just as the womans' coat tails vanished. While the others prepared to breach the main door, he retraced her footsteps, until he too, was at the ledge. The thought occured to him that she might not appreciate being followed, but he was confident he could ward off any attack. He hauled himself through the gap, rolling and landing lightly on his feet. The woman was still there, checking her surroundings. "None of us should wander alone," the scent of blood reached him, but he saw no freshly slain corpses. "Especially not if you are wounded."
     
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  19. Alty

    Alty Caw Caw

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    She allowed herself to be harpooned in the two days of knowing the fellowship, the spear relentlessly tugging her wherever the gaggle went, and she came willingly. Why was beyond her. She simply did not know, and Morthaine abhorred both simplicity and not knowing. With this confusion burned an itch beneath her skin - an itch commanding her to run. But who runs with a spear in their guts, fearing more blood might leak and stain the ground with their tales?
    The bricks were rotted and the door seemed to have out-rotted the bricks, as there was no door. The only noise was from the assassin - a rare occurrence - picking through her bag for wrap. Her frayed nails snagged a few spools of red and ivory; fortunate, though useless in the moment. She withdrew with disappointment, buckles clattering with a final pat.

    With a palm taut on the hardening skin, she yielded the rasped warning. She did not need to see the Hist-licker, but divulged a challenging corner eye nonetheless. "I do not wander."

    Her tines were venomous beneath the shroud she brooded in. She did not elaborate, leaving herself open for assaulting assumptions, whether that be she had her own plan for acting jointly or to make up for staying behind on the road here. She wanted to seclude herself like a dying animal. She wanted seclusion for the sake of a wound and wounded pride. She mirrored the murk ahead; her face dark with the unsaid unlit in the wake of it.

    She was only mortal, not that she ever acted like it to be so willing to pick about on the somber side of the archway with her back unguarded. She could not be too worried if Argus readily had her back on the field. "You had my back," the utter was as pointless as it was meaningful. She stated the obvious as if she did not know how to say thank you or ask why. Language itself was foreign to her.
     
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