[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

"One thing we can do," Sigurd says quietly. "Is burn the shaman's body. It will make the peasants feel better."

"We're alive!" he shouts to Ricard. "This is a piece of work!"

He walks back through the passage, still carrying the shaman staff. As he approaches the entrance he blinks at the light and Ricard's silhouette.

"Sir Talberg," he says. "We have the body of a beast man sorcerer in here. Maybe the militia would like to burn it? I'll need a few hours to figure out how this place needs to be cleansed.... can you buy us that much time?"

[LCP]

The gnarled stave was heavy in Sigurd's hand – lifted up off the ground, it was at least as tall as him. Its bone accoutrements rattled as it moved.

"Sir Talberg," he says. "We have the body of a beast man sorcerer in here. Maybe the militia would like to burn it? I'll need a few hours to figure out how this place needs to be cleansed.... can you buy us that much time?"

“No 'sir',” said Ricard, off-handedly. He peered down over the lip of the fallen gate, finding it hard to see Sigurd through the shadows. “I'm sure they'd love to incinerate this whole place, Mr Waite, but I'm not sure where you'd find the fuel. You may have noticed it's raining.”

Rainwater trickled down Talberg's deadpan face, his thick brown hair plastered to his scalp like a sodden skullcap. He did not look like he was particularly enjoying himself.

“There's nothing in there? No... monster under the hill,” he asked, seeming embarrassed at the words as they left his mouth. He squinted into the darkness of the tunnel, unwilling to descend into the claustrophobic darkness himself. “I suppose I was hoping this'd be an end to the whole damn business. Kill whatever it was that was making people sick, back in time for dinner.” He paused. “Not very sensible, really.”

There was a sound of hands and feet on rock, and Leopold climbed into view. He was just as wet as his brother-in-law to be, and if anything seemed to be enjoying it even less.

“I want to see,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge. “Whatever's down here, I want to see it.”

From beyond the broken rocks, a coarser voice called out.

“Master Talberg!” came the call – one of the villagers. “Master Talberg, the horses still ain't likin' it here. Shall we take yours back under the trees with the others, sir?”

Looking back over his shoulder at the shout, Leopold paused. Brow furrowing, he squinted into the rain.

“How many horses did we bring?” he asked, slowly.

“Seven,” said Ricard. “One ran.”

“Do you think someone might have brought it back?”

Just visible through the haze of falling water, the grey silhouette of a horse was visible, having come out of the forest beyond where Mils and the rest of the villagers were gathering to bring their own whinnying animals into line. It stood still and calm, its long neck bowed beneath the downpour – it was a big animal, much bigger than the horse Verloren had lost. There was something not quite horse-like about its outline; something reminiscent of the rusted barding that still held the bones of the dead knights' chargers.

The rain rendering them a shapeless blur, there was someone in the saddle.

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

The Dhar is thick here. If the daemons came from anywhere... this is it. But why...? How do we-

The approach of the rider reached her ears, and Illiiya grew wide-eyed. Turning quickly, she darted from the tomb to see exactly whom it was that approached.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

“I want to see,” Leopold said, swinging his legs over the edge. “Whatever's down here, I want to see it.”

Sigurd rotates the staff in one smooth motion, readily barring the narrow tomb entrance. He almost smiles as it swings to: it feels good in the hand. A primitive instrument for stirring the winds, but no worse than his cane, really.

"You do not need to see it," he snaps. "I wish I weren't in there myself. None of us should be, unless you want four eyes on your back."

But he sighs, seeing some of his own curious younger self in the boy. Softening, he adds, "If I need an extra set of hands to cleanse the place, you'll be the one I ask. But let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Ricard is going on something about horses: irritated, Sigurd looks up at the nobleman, and then at where he's pointing.

His eyes widen. "Your monster under the hill, Mister Talberg."

"The knight's come for his pint," he hisses down the passageway. Illiiya's already on the way. Sigurd leaps up onto the fallen entrance stone. His new fetish rattles to the ground and his crossbow comes up.

"The Heartless Knight!" he bellows to all the militia. "Crossbows!"

OOC:

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If allowed, Sigurd will shoot. If we need to wait for initiative, that's cool. He aims for the horse, not the rider, and Indigo moves in front of the entrance stone to guard her master.

[goblinpaladin]

"The knight's come for his pint," Sigurd hisses down the passageway. Illiiya's already on the way.

Lothar gives a sound somewhere between a curse and a prayer, and follows the elven witch to the front of the tomb. He brings down his gun, and stands in front of Illiiya, the stock pressed to his shoulder.

[-Sentinel-]

"The Heartless Knight! Crossbows!"

A chill ran down Pieter's spine.

"I don't know about you, Ith, but I'm not staying in a place with only one way out."

He sprinted for the exit, still unsure whether he was preparing to fight or flee. When he emerged in the rain, he saw Lothar and Sigurd draw their weapons and understood that the second option was out - at least if he wanted to not only live, but live with himself. He did not see how a fight could end without casualties on their side, but if they broke and ran like the bandits, they, too, would be butchered.

It's outnumbered about fifteen to one... Surely it will attempt to parlay. What does it stand to gain from fighting us, anyway?

Pieter paused to wonder when, exactly, he had switched from he to it when referring to the knight.

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If I hadn't worked overtime today, I would have come out of the barrow before the start of combat time. *sigh* Alright, full action to run outside.

[goblinpaladin]

Lothar gritted his teeth. "Me at the front. Sigurd, you an' Ill an' Ithelus get behind me. Pieter, you're on flankin' duty- just distract him. That blade's longer'n yours, an' he's a knight. Don't be a hero."

"Leo, Master Talberg. You may want to get Lord Verloren and the others to safety. If you wanna stand here, help Pieter an' me wear him down."

The former musketeer fired- the sound was deafening in the entrance to the tomb, bronze-age stonework trembling with the impact of the sound, acrid smoke bellowing into the rain-soaked air.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd follows Lothar's directions.

OOC:

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Because rolling your own dice is fun.

Crossbow attack: (1d100)[57] vs 30 (with disease)
Damage: (1d10+4)[14]

Indigo moves up as indicated earlier, ideally in front of Sigurd - possibly beside Lothar.

[LCP]

Heads turned at Sigurd’s shout. The Hohlesbruckers made uncertain noises as they noticed the silent figure at the forest’s edge. Only Leopold understood Sigurd’s fear, the others squinting to get a better look at the new arrival.

“It’s one of the Panthers!”

The villager’s hopeful cry was drowned out by the roar of Lothar’s gun. The ball struck hard and true, smashing the knight back in the saddle with such force that it must have penetrated his plate. Lothar watched with bated breath – and felt his heart sink as the rider straightened up once more, recovering as if from no more than a firm push. His hand came up, and in it was a sword that smoked in Illiiya’s witchsight like a burning city.

Armoured heels kicked against his horse’s flanks, and the great destrier came around, churning the earth as it began to pick up speed. Sigurd’s crossbow-bolt whipped past it, going well wide of its mark. The syncopated thunder of the warhorse’s hooves rose in tempo, accelerating into the charge as the knight's ragged riding cloak streamed out behind him – seeing the great shape bearing down on them, the Hohlesbruckers’ confusion turned to alarm, men scattering back in all directions as they fought to keep the panicking horses under control.

Pulling his own sword from its scabbard, Mils wrenched his unwilling horse around to face the charge. As he did, he saw the edge of the knight’s blade swooping in towards his face – a sudden and undignified duck was all that saved him from being shortened by a head, the armoured bulk of the knight’s mount crashing shoulder-on into his own. Hooves stamped and slid in the rain-saturated mud, Mils’ animal whinnying in wild fear.

Seeing their lord under attack, the peasants were galvanised into action. Heeding Sigurd’s words at last, Hans and the others began to frantically load their crossbows, Gerolf and another charging past them to join the melee. The old bailiff struck high, his old sword finding a chink in his enemy’s armour – the knight’s head turned as if pricked by a needle, Gerolf finding himself looking straight up into that expressionless visor.

Leopold was already running for his horse, Ricard’s uncertain walk turning into a run as he saw what was happening. Raindrops splashing from his armour, the knight was already pulling his snorting steed around, the blade of the sword describing an elegant loop in his hand as he swung it back to deal with his new assailants...

OOC:

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Note for Frankie: I've left Ithelus inside the barrow this turn, because knowing his larcenous tendencies, I figured he might want to nick some of the gold from the skeleton in the sarcophagus. That could have consequences, though, so I don't want to do it for you while on autopilot. You can consider this to be Schroedinger's post - if you want him to have taken something, he took something, and if you want him not to have, he just lingered for a turn, wrestling with the temptation.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd scrambles over the rocks of the barrow entrance, rises tall behind Indigo and calls to her. He taps his chest and then points into the tomb. "See if you can find a heart!"

Indigo looks at him with tilted head for a moment. Then she gets it, and jumps up onto the rocks. Soon she disappears into the gloom of the grave entrance.

Seeing Mils under assault by that evil, ancient weapon Sigurd knows this may be the most important spell he's cast. But he fears the words coming out of his mouth, as if the dhar he inhaled in the tomb might climb back up from his lungs and choke his chanting...

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Indigo takes a full movement to go into the heart of the tomb. She will begin sniffing around looking for the Knight's heart.

Sigurd moves to the square immediately north of Indigo. This puts him exactly within 12 yards of the Knight, which is the range limit on Drop.

Casting Drop:

(1d10)[2] + (1d10)[4] v. 4
Evil die: (1d10)[9]
That assumes that outside the tomb we're back to just one chaos die; if the dhar from inside has clung to us, which Sigurd fears it has, here is a second one: (1d10)[1]

On a success, the Knight must either succeed on a WP test or drop everything he's holding: the sword and the reins, for whatever good that latter bit will do.

If the Knight can make WP tests at all. If he can't, I suppose he's immune...

No matter what Sigurd sees happen when his chant croaks out of his mouth, he manages to shout a warning:

"The sword is cursed! It stole his SOUL!"

[-Sentinel-]

"Don't be a hero."

Pieter did not detect the slightest hint of sarcasm in Lothar's tone. He was about to come up with a snappy retort when things took an unexpected turn; first when the knight just shrugged off a direct hit from Lothar's gun, next when he went straight for Lord Verloren. The initiate cursed in Strigany.

"See if we can unhorse him... it. We can't let it escape."

He ran towards the fight (No! Wrong direction!) as fast as he could manage, fumbling for the handle of his shortsword but failing to get a hold of it in his haste. At one point he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Lothar was not too far behind.

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Running 10 squares due south as a full action, stopping just 3 squares away from base contact with the knight (second square north of Gerolf's previous position).

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Not here... not now....

Illiiya looked about in a panic. She wasn't certain the knight could even be killed, and here it was attacking them. It was outnumbered heavily and fearless. Perhaps it sought death?

Hurrying to do as Lothar instructed, Illiiya moved as he bid, seeking to get close enough to turn the winds against that which had once been slain. If the wind of death could not send what spirit animated it to rest, nothing could.

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Moving along as lothar suggested. If she can, she'll magic dart. If she has to move too far, or is out of range or whatnot, she shall not.

Casting roll, if needed: (1d10)[5], (1d10)[6]
Chaos die (i'm assuming it's still here, tree or no) (1d10)[8]
Damage: (1d10+4)[11]
Ulric's Fury? (1d100)[90]
Fury Damage: (1d10)[6]. (1d10)[3]

Here's hoping.

[goblinpaladin]

"No!" Lothar shouted, slinging his gun. "Fall back- bring him here, to the bottleneck!"

He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting to Verloren. "M'lord! Fall back. Get outta there- bring him to us!"

The former soldier gave a savage curse in Kislev, yanking his favourite sword from the scabbard.

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Half action to put gun away, half action to unsling shield, free action to draw sword.

[LCP]

Marshalling the Grey Wind to his command, Sigurd reached out, trying to pluck the sword from the knight’s mailed fist. It was a simple trick, he remembered his teachers telling him – the human mind in its natural state was a chaotic swarm of thoughts and feelings, each competing for attention. It was just a matter of reaching into that cloud and pushing the right thought to the surface of the subconscious, a thought other than hold on to this sword...

The subtle caress of the cantrip met the knight’s mind like a child’s fingers meeting a cleaver. There were no petty distractions there to throw in his path, no lurking fears to engorge – only the cold shock of iron purpose, almost making Sigurd recoil from the momentary contact. The spell unravelled and died in the damp air, the sword still gleaming in the rider’s hand.

Looping the blade through a heavy backswing, the knight brought his weapon down on Gerolf. The old bailiff was raising his sword for another blow, trying to stab between the joints of the knight’s plate; one moment he was lining up his thrust, the next he was reeling back from a blow that had sheared his sword-hand from his wrist. Before he could even scream, the bloody sword hacked down again, driving its edge down through his shoulder and halfway into his ribcage before it came to a halt.

Yelling fear and anger, the villager who had followed Gerolf threw himself forwards, trying to bring horse and rider to the ground. As the bailiff’s body crumpled to the ground, the black stallion reared onto its hind legs, powerful hooves smashing the angry Hohlesbrucker down into the mud. Mils cried out, swinging out with his sword, but the knight raised his forearm to catch the slashing blow. Steel met steel with an ugly shriek, leaving nothing but a scratch on the dull metal of the knight’s armour.

Other Hohlesbruckers were rushing towards the fray, another charging in to see his own wild blow glance from the armour plates of the stamping horse. Reifennen’s horse had been let free, the terrified animal bolting across the clearing towards the shelter of the trees beyond the barrow; beside the one man still keeping the two rearing carthorses in hand, Suster and the other crossbow militia were edging towards Lothar and his defensive position, their crossbows trained on the combat. The knight was so close they could scarcely miss - but then, so was Mils.

Already in the saddle, Leopold pulled his horse through a tight turn and spurred it on past the knight’s rear, shouting for the armoured warrior’s attention. Ricard had one foot in the stirrups, ready to swing himself up onto his own mount.

Words of power hovering on her lips, Illiiya heard the scuffing of boots on stone beside her at the mouth of the barrow. Already slotting a new bolt into his crossbow, Ithelus had emerged from the darkness.

[goblinpaladin]

Still cursing, Lothar jerked his head at Illiiiya and Ith. "You three, stay as far back as you can, amongst this tomb if you can. His horse'll be no good here."

He glared at the combat and hefted Marius' sword. "I'll go get m'self killed."

The soldier ran forward.

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Moving as fast as humanly possible towards the knight.

This is a bad idea.

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Lothar, no! Illiiya cried after him, but it was already too late.

She looked back to Ithelus helplessly, as if torn over what to do. She could do little to the knight, she was certain... but neither could Lothar.

I... if I do not return, I am sorry. She said hastily, as she pulled the winds around her like a robe. Please stay safe.

And with that, she took off on Lothar's tail.

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Casting my armor spell and following along.

Casting: (1d10)[8], (1d10)[4]
Chaos Die: (1d10)[2]

[-Sentinel-]

"Ranald's gold tooth, get him off his horse first!" the initiate yelled in exasperation at the peasants trying to find a way through the knight's armor. Why not aim for his shield while they were at it?

A short prayer under his breath, he drew his shortsword and moved closer (Too close!) to the knight, his steps unconsciously cautious and cat-like as if it made any difference in the middle of a battle.

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Half action to draw my weapon.
Move action (4 squares). Please put me as close to the horse's rump as my movement can take me... Got to leave room for Lothar and the nameless Hohlesbrucker nearby.

[Exeson]

Ithelus finishes reloading the crossbow, The weight of a single palmed gold coin resting in his sleeve. With a sick sudder he manages to bring the crossbow up and take aim.

As Illiiya and Lothar make their runs Ithelus calls after her, telling her to come back. The truth is however that he is rooted to the spot in fear.

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OOC: half action to finish reloading, half action to aim.

[LCP]

Magic rippled and twisted through the rain, raindrops splashing a few inches short of Illiiya’s skin as she cloaked herself in the Aethyr. Sigurd stretched out his hands with a crescendo of arcane words, another flash of witch-light streaking towards the knight – it burst from his battered armour in a spray of eerie fire, scarcely leaving a mark where it had struck.

Reeling in the aftermath of the spell, Sigurd bent double as Illiiya ran past him, following Lothar towards the fray. He could feel the poison seeping through his frayed defences, every channel in his body seeming to burn with a feverish pain. Blinking hard to stop his vision from swimming, he forced himself to stand straight, his eyes on the battle. He was an experienced journeyman of the Grey College. He was in control.

Sigurd Only

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The colours of the witchsight seemed to be growing brighter unbidden, the wisps of warp-stuff carried on the wind burning with strange, sinister hues as they drifted through the mundane drizzle of the rain. Trying to keep a rein on his perceptions, he found his eyes drawn inescapably towards the bloody body of Gerolf the bailiff, lying crumpled in the mud beside the battle.

The sword had opened the old man’s body in ways that did Sigurd’s weakened stomach no favours – but as he watched, those crimson wounds were widening, their edges turning black and gangrenous as a week-old corpse. The rot spread in blotches across the dead man’s skin, festering in fast motion.

Something moved in the rotting meat, a pulsing wriggle of pale flesh. Sigurd felt a strange wave of déjà vu, the corpse of beastman shaman below flashing before his eyes – as he watched, however, the bailiff’s chest jerked and tore, moving far more violently than any maggot could possibly push.

The things that were emerging from the wounds were yellowish-white grubs, as thick around as an adder and almost as long. Jaws somewhere between an insect’s and a lamprey’s flexed and drooled a viscous slime, their fat bodies ringed with thin black spines.

There were seven of them. Spilling from the collapsing cavity of Gerolf’s chest, they began to crawl across the earth with frightening speed. They were headed straight towards Sigurd.

OOC: Test WP against gaining an Insanity Point at the sight. Test Academic Knowledge (Magic) to recognise these creatures.

Seeing that the knight would not respond to his calls, Leopold pulled his horse through one more sharp turn, riding straight at the killer in their midst. Shouting the nearest he could get to a war-cry, he raised his sword to helmet-height, swinging wildly as he came racing in. Almost before he had time to register the impact, the knight’s blade met his, effortlessly sweeping his blow off and to the side. Leopold lurched sideways, pushed off-balance – this new threat dealt with for now, the knight flicked his bloody weapon through a figure-of-eight, preserving its momentum to deliver a powerful slash across Mils’ chest. The lord of the manor cried out in pain, his own blow kissing the air as he rocked back in the saddle. Through the chaos, Pieter saw fresh blood soaking through Verloren’s coat.

Still kicking and rearing, the warhorse lunged again at its chosen victim. More of the Hohlesbruckers were piling in, however, and their jabbing blades forced it back to all fours before it could fracture another skull. Backing away from the superficial cuts being dealt to its forelegs, it gave a sudden snort of sudden anger as a villager ran in from behind, burying a sickle between the armour plates of its barding. It was in pain, but it was not afraid.

Away behind the retreating carthorses, Ricard had pulled himself up into the saddle, and was drawing a pistol in each hand. The crossbow militia stood their ground, keeping their wavering aim fixed on the melee before them – between themselves and Ithelus, they made four crossbows encircling the combat. They waited only for a clear shot.

~

Inside the barrow, Indigo ran back and forth with her nose to the floor. There was a rich skein of smells to disentangle, the strongest being the putrid odour of the beastman’s corpse – there were others beneath it, though. The damp smell of the forest loam behind the ancient stones, the sour, cold whiff of mould spores and dust. They mingled and drifted in the air like coloured threads, as clear to her as the Winds of Magic to her master.

Just detectable beneath the others, as faint as the stale smell of old bones, was another scent. Following its trace, she put her front paws up on the lip of the sarcophagus, her head drooping in over the edge.

Something small and withered lay deep in the shadow of the stone coffin-lid, nestling against the inner wall of the casket at about the level of the ancient skeleton’s knees. Some of the old blood that stained the outside of the sarcophagus had stippled the stone around it, but the thing itself was so caked in dust that it seemed almost the same colour as the surrounding stone.

A torn oval of shrivelled muscle, it was just barely recognisable as a human heart.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd reels. He sputters, shuts his eyes to the witchsight, then opens them again, hoping he will see something different.

"Illiiya... do you see them? ILLIIYA!!"

He draws his dirk and prepares to fend off the things if they attack him.

((OOC: will attack if they come in range))

~

Indigo

Indigo clamps her jaws around the heart-thing, gleefully seizing it as her friend the wizard instructed. She longs to linger in the tomb for a moment, its scents alluring. She feels at home there. But she does actually want to see Sigurd succeed, and she turns and runs with the heart out into the rain.

As she bounds, she can't help but notice the flavor. The heart was the exact epicenter of spiritual pollution so strong it even made Lothar shudder. But rather than being unsettled, she looks almost manic to have picked the thing up - like most pups with a new ham bone.

((OOC: full move to bring the heart to Sigurd))

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Leave them alone! Illiiya shrieked as she rushed towards the fray.

She knew not if her sorcerous armor and weapon would be enough... she was no expert in combat as Lothar was. It would have to be enough. If Lothar was rushing in, so would she. She had to admit a slight fondness for Leopold as well.

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Scythe time!

Casting: (1d10)[4], (1d10)[6]
Chaos Die: (1d10)[8]

If the Scythe is formed, she'll move in to just outside the reach of le knight's weapon. If not, she'll pull her short blade again. This is, of course, barring any miscast I may get from using my magic.

[goblinpaladin]

Hefting his sword, Lothar made a wordless cry and slammed himself against the knight and the thing he rode. His sword lashed out, but only carved deeper markes against the patina of the barding.

"M'lord Verloren," the soldier yelled as he worked his weapon, "withdraw! We'll take it down."

[-Sentinel-]

His blade held low in the combat stance Lothar had taught him, Pieter circled around the mounted Leopold, approached the knight from the rear and lashed out at the destrier.

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Charging 4 yards south and 2 yards northwest.
Attack bonus: +30 (+10 for the charge and +20 for outnumbering)

Effective WS 66: (d100)[2]
Damage: (d10+3)[7]

He struck true, and the way metal clanged against metal was beautiful.

Sigh.

"Lothar! Think you can disarm him?"

[Exeson]

'Illiiya! Don't go near it' Ithelus cries desperately as his fear truly sinks in. He continues to try and get a clear shot at the rider.

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OOC: half action to delay, Ithelus will take the shot of he gets a clear one

[LCP]

Illiiya ignored Ithelus’ warning, running forwards with strange words spilling from her lips. The wind seemed to rise a semitone in pitch, driving the grey rain at a shallower angle into her back. With a whisper of other winds entirely, she felt the weapon she had called for materialise in her hands. Its handle curving like the neck of a swan, it resembled a scythe in the same way that Marius’ sword resembled a butcher’s knife.

It was a terrifying weapon, but it had a match in the knight’s blade. Blows from Leopold and the villagers glancing from his armour, the knight turned his head at Pieter’s shout – pulling his snorting horse sharply around, he met Lothar’s assault head-on.

Lothar raised his shield over his head just in time. The first blow crashed down hard enough to stagger him, ripping a deep gouge across the flaked remains of the old Nordland livery. The second followed it with startling speed, Lothar’s reflexes saving him by inches from decapitation.

He had no time to recover. The black destrier was on top of him, trying to use its immense, armoured weight to bear him down into the mud. Lose his footing now, Lothar knew, and the fight was done; those trampling hooves could break a man’s ribs like dry twigs, given the chance. Scrambling in the mud, he caught the fragment of an infantry sergeant’s words, echoing frantically through his memory.

...what you do is, you grab your musket by the barrel, and you club the crap out of the horse’s mouth...

He didn’t have his musket to hand, but he had his shield. Swinging as hard as he could, he smashed the shield’s gouged face into the horse’s muzzle – sure enough, the creature whinnied and shied, buying him precious moments in which to breathe.

Clutching at the cut the knight had dealt him with one hand, Mils hauled on his reins, his horse only too glad to carry him out of the fray. As the lord of the manor retreated, a new front opened up for the villagers. The three crossbowmen scrambled sideways to take advantage of it, one of them taking careful aim before letting fly. The bolt flew straight and true, slamming into the knight’s cuirass below the shoulder. There it stuck, its head buried in pierced steel – the knight hardly seemed to notice.

Behind him, Pieter heard a muddy drumroll of hooves. Ricard rode by at a canter, levelling a pistol at the back of the faceless helmet as he did. There was a click as he pulled the trigger, a click and nothing else. The rain must have got to the powder: Pieter heard Ricard’s receding curses as the horse bore him away.

Still standing frozen by the barrow’s entrance, Ithelus almost jumped as something big and grey came bounding out of the darkness behind him. It was Indigo, something small and withered in her jaws – moving in a shaggy blur, she ran over to where Sigurd was standing. The wizard appeared to be in some trouble. He had pulled that little knife out of his cane, and was wildly menacing the empty air in front of him.

Sigurd Only

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The worms shivered, seeming to engorge themselves as Illiiya called her midnight-black scythe from the Aethyr, as deaf to Sigurd’s cries as the bodies in the tomb. He couldn’t shut them out – he could smell them coming nearer, the rich stench of decay riding on the air before them. A low, inhuman drone was rising in his ears, a drone like the buzzing of a swarm of flies.

Indigo came bounding out of the barrow, approaching him with something in her mouth. She seemed oblivious to the fattening things slithering across the ground towards them – but as Sigurd watched, two of them broke away from the others, wriggling excitedly towards the wolfhound. They were seconds away from reaching her...

[goblinpaladin]

Taking advantage of the horse's sudden shyness, Lothar ducked in low, knocking the knight's blade away with the shield, and slashes -slash-slash- and thrusts, trusting to his reflexes and secondhand chain to protect him.

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter worried for Lothar, but part of him was glad of the way he kept the knight's attention on himself. He slashed at the wounded horse twice in quick succession...

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Swift attack, +20 outnumbering bonus.

Effective WS 56: (d100)[41]
Damage: (d10+3)[7] Soaked.

Effective WS 56: (d100)[79]
Damage: (d10+3)[5]

...to no avail.

[Exeson]

They are dieing out there. They are all fighting and you are too scared to move. Just like in the tower when you ran. You ran from them and they all accepted you back with open arms. Would they do so again?

Ithelus drops the crossbow to his side, willing his feet to move. It almost felt like this was all a dream and if he just stayed here, with eyes shut he would wake up.

Didn't you just agree to fight for me for their safety?

Ithelus shuddered and opens his eyes, 'I don't serve you'.

But yet we had an agreement.

The first step is the hardest, especially considering the exhaustion and illness, but after a couple the elf is running to join the fray.

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Full round action to run to join the villagers with crossbows so he can get a clear shot off next round. I think that is possible from looking at the map?

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

I SAID LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Illiiya shrieked as she flung herself into the fray, the aethyr wrapped around her as both weapon and armor. She knew it was foolish, but if there was even a chance that she could save the lives of the few humans who meant anything to her, she would do it. She would always do it...


I'll die before I let you take them! Illiiya cried out, her face twisted in a mix of anger, fear and spite as she swung with all her might.

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Charge.

To hit: (1d100)[29]
Damage: (1d10+5)[8]
Ulric's Fury, if needed: (1d100)[60]
Extra damage: (1d10)[2], (1d10)[4]

Since I didn't need to use it earlier, Illiiya will spend a fortune point on the hit, if it misses, or the damage, if it's lower than 10 total... in that order.

Hit re-roll, if needed: (1d100)[79]
Damage re-roll, if needed: (1d10+5)[11]

Oh, and I'm aiming for the knight, not the horse. Perhaps since it's a magical weapon, he'll actually care.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd cast about. Could no-one else tell he was in mortal peril? If neither Illiiya nor Indigo could see these creatures then maybe...

"Trickery," he mutters. He's less than convinced but then his beloved hound appears at his side, their prize secured.

Sigurd takes the heart from her mouth and aims a trembling dirk at it...

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He witchsights it. If witchsight or kn arcana will give him insight into something special he needs to do tp it he does that.

Otherwise he runs it through with his dirk.

Indi sees that her friend is afraid and readies an attack vs any foe, visible or otherwise, who messes with either of them.

Indigo licks her lips.