The Hunt for the Crown - Part II

A stiff breeze blows amidst through star-dappled night that caresses the land; the glow from the Moons casting a pale light upon the ground below that serves to illuminate the surrounding landscape just enough to ensure that anything nasty that this way comes doesn't quite get a drop upon those who keep watch.

Relentless is this breeze, and reliable is the darkness, for even out here, beyond the Aegis, where Drakes and Wildlings rule, can some features of home be found. The Moons are the same. The stars, though viewed from a slightly different angle, remain familiar, and the grass beneath the feet of those who walk upon it seems no different to the rolling plains of southern Fastheld.

The calm of the night is almost peaceful, with the hush of the breeze bringing a soothing tone to an otherwise unremarkable night.

"Kyaaaaaaah!"

An unremarkable night that is abruptly broken by a distant battle cry.

Thayndor Zahir bolts upright, drawing an arrow from the quiver at his back and nocking it to the string of his longbow. "Did you hear that?" Asks the leather-clad Deeper, glare from the firelight dancing along the oiled surface of his armor.

Dradin draws his crystal dirk slowly from his belt. "Yup," he replies to Thayndor quietly.

Vhramis turns about, looking in the direction the sound came from. "Perhaps we just found him," he muses, gesturing in the direction. "Weapons ready. We should go." Corriden lowers his waterskin, turning to face the direction of the cry with an expression of bafflement. "Huh..." He murmurs, reaching up to rub at his scarred cheek. "Weirdest bird I've ever heard."

Aiden Zahir lifts his sword in wary response. "That was no bird. It was either a cry of triumph ... or agony. "

Evidently, those on watch tonight have sharpened senses indeed. Collectively, you are able to make out that the battle cry came from somewhere to the East , amidst what appears to be a somewhat forested region.

Thayndor Zahir gestures to the campfire. "Bring torches," he says. "We can light our arrows and use them as signals."

Corriden draws his longsword with a whisper of steel, unslinging the kite shield he keeps on his back and holding it at the ready-- Perhaps a little closer than usual, protecting his neck. "Won't do those of us who need two hands much good, but makes sense enough." He murmurs, trotting off towards the East with the rustling clank of full platemail.

Vhramis glances behind to the group, nodding his general ascent, and brings his bow to ready. "You," he gestures to Dradin. "You have a free hand. Torch." And he sets off east.

Aiden Zahir joins the movement Eastward, senses at their most aware, peering into the darkness for the slightest sign of a lost companion. Or something far worse. "Remain on guard. If there is evil afoot, it will doubtless come our way as we close in."

"If I remember correctly," Thayndor begins, starting to trot forward, "Wildlings hate fire." As he leaves the circle of firelight, his teeth are briefly visible in a feral grin. "Then again, that could just be wishful thinking." Longbow at the ready, Thayndor runs beside and a step behind Vhramis.


 * The Sanguine Forest


 * The overhead radiance from whatever illuminates the sky at this time of day - be it Sun or Moons - is quickly and mercilessly filtered out as the thickness of the intermixed branches of the forest above you provide a mesh of flora that deny the lambent glow of the light any place within the depths of this veiled mess of tree of undergrowth.


 * What little light that does manage to penetrate the canopy of dense foliage above streaks down in beams of scintillate hues, adding a somewhat mystical elements to what it already, without a doubt, an ancient forest.


 * Ancient, and equally ominous, for the Sanguine Forest is a place of great darkness indeed. The eerie silence of the forest provides a foreboding score to what should otherwise be a place filled with life; the quiet deafening by its notable absence, as if the creatures of nature had long ago deemed this expanse of tree and leaf tainted by shadow, and fled its undergrowth ever since.


 * The oak of the ancient guardians creak and moan as the wind sweeps around them, warning those who dare pass beneath their mighty forms of the perils that could await them. Yet, for its entire hidden presentiment, there are more obvious - and evidently recent - signs of darkness afoot: The Corpses of Wildlings litter the area in sporadic scatterings of carnage.


 * The majority of those that are dead seem to be of the mottled grey type that are as well known as they are feared, yet - perhaps even more ominously - a few cadaverous Wildlings that you pass by are of a much more sinister breed: Black skinned are they, dappled with crimson splotches, seven feet in length, and equipped with raptor-like talons on their feet.


 * The land upon which these Wildlings have fallen remains tainted with the blood of these creatures, evidently spilled from the numerous fine slashes that litter their forms.


 * The faint sound of running water seems to cascade from the east.

Darkness: It seeps into the forest like blood into the soil. It would seem that both feature within this landscape in equal measure.

Moonlight streaks down through the canopy in solemn isolation, slipping through the cracks that the forest has yet to seal with a scarcity befitting of the landscape. The silent watchers that are the great Oaks creak and groan their protests as the intruders slink among them from the grasslands beyond. Silent, too, is the forest itself... save for the almost painful volume of clinking armor and the crackle of flames from the torches.

Corriden keeps a bit ahead of the torches, trying not to ruin his night-vision with the bright light of the flame. Platemail isn't quiet stuff, even when oiled properly, so the large Lomasa has to strain his ears beyond the noise of the mobile group, green eyes narrowed behind the slotted visor of his silver helm.

"Too familiar," Vhramis mutters to himself, giving the wildlings only half a look before he's focused on the surrounding terrain. The man winces somewhat at the noises of the platemail, stepping forward a bit to distance himself, an arrow being nocked. Aiden Zahir hoists his sword in readiness, the steel gleaming menacingly in the moonlight and flicker of torches; that deadly intent echoed in the set to the Spymaster's jaw. For his often flippant tone, there is nothing half-hearted or convivial about the Zahir, now. No, this is a time to be on one's guard. In deadly earnest.

A whisper of noise radiates from somewhere to the north. A rustle of leaf flows from behind. A soft hiss originates from the left...

In the deathly quiet of this ancient forest, ascertaining the natural from the hostile remains difficult to say the least. The darkness aids little, either, while the corpses offer no answers to the unspoken questions.

A hiss from the right... the whisper of wind? Or a hunter?

Darting between slivers of moonlight and the ravaged corpses of Wildlings, Thayndor keeps an arrow nocked on his bowstring. "Quiet," Thayndor almost murmurs with fast-falling boots on forest loam. Wide, alert eyes flicker from moonbeam to moonbeam. "Move quickly."

Corriden shakes his head to remove the sweat stinging at his eyes in the close confines of the helm, picking up his pace slightly. He doesn't speak, but the large Lomasa makes enough noise anyhow. A moonbeam catches an edge of the bared steel longsword.

"Silence," Vhramis breathes, eyes narrowing at the faint noises. "Silently and together," he adds to Thayndor's command, pausing to let the group pass him as he watches the area behind them.

Aiden Zahir utters not a word, not wanting to do anything to antagonize that hiss further, though one does suppress the natural urge to call for a square. That's instinct in this sort of situation, of course.

Something moves up ahead, and - for just a moment - the refraction of pale moonlight upon narrowed eyes flash with dangerous intent; the shadowy owner of those gleaming orbs slipping into the undergrowth a heartbeat later with a malcontent hiss of warning. A second rustle of movement again sounds from the left. Something evil this way stalks. Wildlings at large...

Aiden Zahir gestures towards Thayndor, and thence, wordlessly, towards the right, not breaking the silence, but giving signal as best he can. The Spymaster has taken note of ... something. Or someone.

Dradin slowly pivots to the right, tightening the grip on his blade. He motions to the others to indicate right-ward as well.

A half-step to the right and Thayndor raises his bow, not acknowledging the others or flinching in his movements. A smooth draw on the longbow, a brief pause, and an arrow flickers briefly in and out of view as it darts between moonbeams towards a vague outline at the right of the party.

"I see it," Vhramis mouths, mirroring Thayndor's actions as he lifts his bow and fires another arrow into the brush.

Corriden raises his sword a bit further, leg-muscles tensing for movement. He's forced to turn to the right somewhat, as the helm limits his vision otherwise.

The soft twang and whistle of an arrow being launched, and then in flight, is swiftly echoed as a second arrow is sent forth towards the Wildling that stalks the party. Though taken by suprise, the Wildling's legendary skills of innate reaction come to life as it watches the arrows fly towards it... yet not fast enough. Thayndor's arrow strikes the creature of shadow squarely through the heart; Vhramis' arrow the hitting the kidney region a split second later.

With a final hiss of annoyance at being caught off-guard, the Wildling crumples and falls to the ground.

Thayndor Zahir looks at Vhramis as he nocks another arrow. "One," he whispers, then casts a glance behind him at the others. "Keep moving." And in a swirl of velvet cloak as black as the night around them, Thayndor moves to continue along the trail. Aiden Zahir nods approvingly as perceptive prevails, and those gifted with skills in archery put them to skilled and deadly use. One down ... no telling how many more to go. Onwards, they trudge, the Spymaster ever watchful for anything further out of sorts.

Another arrow is drawn from the quiver at Vhramis' waist, and he's back to looking about carefully for more targets as he follows the group.

Dradin walks along with the others, eyes darting about as he keeps the dirk at the ready.

One down. Another corpse to line the battlefield of a conflict that has already been waged amidst the great oaks of the forest. But this is the second Wildling that has been glimpsed so far, which begs the question of where the other one went.

The answer becomes clear a few moments later, when - using the death of its comrade to its advantage - a second Wildling charges through the undergrowth, quick as lightning. Its target: He that felled Wildling kin.

Bloodlust fueling its speed, the Wildling leaps...

It's bad business to let the archers get splattered, or at least so Corriden thinks. Although a bit further ahead of the flanking Thayndor, the Lomasa still turns to go after the offending wildling, sword raised.

It all happens in a split second of motion. The Wildling leaps before any have a change to notice it, crashing down on Thayndor's back and slashing with wild intent as it pushes him to the ground. Claws rake through the leather armor, drawing deep lines of crimson from the Zahir's shoulders; his saving grace only that the Wildling has spotted Corriden charging towards it.

Aiden Zahir looks on in incredulous rage as the Wildling springs from the darkness, dashing forward towards Thayndor himself as it lands upon him, intent upon doing whatever he may to help dissuade the vicious assault upon his kinsman

Dradin shrugs as the two nobles charge forth and follows suit, dirk poised to strike.

Down goes the longbow. Vhramis' fingers curl around the katar in the sheath at his waist, and the man slides forward, moving up to strike at the attacking Wildling. Thayndor Zahir can't even turn in time to see the Wildling coming. The attack bowls Thayndor over sideways and backwards, the nocked arrow lodging itself into a tree and his longbow falling just out if hand's reach at his side. As he falls, Thayndor cries out involuntarily, a cry of pain and surprise mingled with rage. The yell is choked away when his back hits the ground and he lies there, out of his senses for a moment, blood seeping up from punctured leather at his shoulders.

Bloodlust flowing through the veins of the furious Wildling, the creature using the shadows to its advantage, Two-Patch evades the oncoming attacks with deadly grace. It ducks Corriden's swipe with gentle ease, rolling to the left to skip by Dradin's assault, before leaping back as Aiden charges in. By the time Vhramis has entered the fray, the Wildling merely dances around him with all the speed of a demon...

...around, and quickly into a second charge as it sweeps across the small opening and lunges at Aiden, claws extended as it attempts to zero in on it's quarry.

Aiden Zahir charges in with his blade held high, intent upon cleaving this fiend in twain and paying it back in full for shedding even the slightest drop of Zahir blood. A little hard to achieve, however, fast as these thrice-damned Wildlings are. They may be uglier than the backside of a Seamel, but they're fast ...

Having not quite considered the possibility of Aiden charging back *towards* him, Two-Patch finds himself forced into a collision of claw and blade. He knocks Aiden back a little in turn, of course, but he himself finds - much to his annoyance - that his well-timed leap has resulted in him bouncing off the Zahir. With a snarl of sheer fury, the Wildling problem gathers itself into a defensive posture, ready for the counter-attacks that will no doubt follow the lost opportunity.

Two-Patch pays little heed to the third Wildling that dashes by the group during this crash. Nor the forth. Or the fifth.

"Shadow take it," Vhramis growls as the wildling eludes him, and the close proximity to his allies making it difficult to attack. The addition of more wildlings dashing past sets him rocking back on his heels, watching them warily, though finding them not aggressive, at least for the moment, he slides forward again, winding the katar in, trying to strike flesh.

Thayndor Zahir groans, collecting his feet underneath him and rising shakily. Still stunned, the longbow is collected and tucked underneath his cloak, now shredded at the shoulder. The flickering shadows of Wildlings passing by brings panic to his actions, and in a frantic scramble to reach the shield strapped at his back Thayndor staggers two steps away from the ensuing melee.

Dradin growls as the Wildling dodges, taking a step back to avoid any stray claws. "Shadin' bugger!" He moves to stab forward into the Wildling's chest, ignoring the other creatures for the moment.

Aiden Zahir rails against the Wildling, turning in rage all the stoked at being denied, a deadly swing of his sword towards the blackguard's back, intent upon sinking it within shadow-spawned flesh if it's the last thing he does. Which, judging by the odds, it may very well be.

Corriden is left to chase after the Wildling as it pursues Aiden, trying to skewer the creature from behind while it's occupied with Aiden in front. "Shadin' fast bastard!" He snarls, voice muffled and metallic courtesy of his helm.

A sixth Wildling charges around the group. And then a seventh...

It would seem that the luck that Two-Patch's bloodlust granted it has run out. Perhaps slightly dazed by his intimate encounter with Aiden Zahir, the Wildling fails to avoid the counter-attack, diving to the left a second too late to avoid the deep slash that the Noble's sword manages to carve into his back. That dive did little to aid the creature in avoiding the other attacks, either, for as Two-Patch looks up towards his Vhramis assailant, Corriden's sword carves a second line into the Wildling's lower back, branding the creature with a deeply etched "X".

An eighth. Ninth. Tenth...

While shuddering from the pain, Vhramis' Katar finds an easy mark, sinking deep into the Wildling's shoulder as the creature howls in pain. It manages to roll to the left, leaving a trail of crimson behind it, turning to flee...

It almost manages to escape, too, except for the last minute intervention of Dradin, who - Dirk waving around wildly - manages to trip over a rock. The rock causes the Freelander to stumble forward, crashing to the ground in a heavy heap of limbs and clothing. The Dirk stabs into the ground below him - thankfully blade first - leaving the handle to jab him in the chest in a somewhat painful manner. To add insult to injury, Two-Patch then trips on him, collapsing in a heap atop the Freelander, and dripping gore all over his back.

Corriden doesn't feel the triumph he ought to.. Something about looking up and noticing wildlings all over the place can really take the wind out of a guy's sails. "Well, cowshit." The large Lomasa rumbles under his breath, sinking back into a defensive posture as the tenth wildling zooms past. "What th' shades is going on?"

Breathing heavily, Thayndor lets both hands fall to his sides as he rolls his shoulders experimentally. Through teeth gritted in pain, he murmurs, "Two," and turns to face the direction the Wildlings went. "Serath must be doing well. I counted ten of them pass us." The Zahir blinks hard twice, and then reaches painfully back for his longbow again.

"OY! *oof* Whores and horseshoes!*" Dradin cries out as he trips and gets jabbed with his own weapon, and lets out a further stream of profanities as the Wildling falls on him. "Gaaaaaah! Gerroff!" He attempts to push the crippled monstrosity off of him. "Shadin' fing is bleedin' on me!"

"Gather round him," Vhramis states, turning about to watch the wildlings scamper past, moving to form up next to Corriden to protect Thayndor. "Don't move." Aiden Zahir snorts at the mention of Serath, cleaning his blade on a swath of grass. "If Serath is taking on eight or ten Wildlings at a time, he's not merely a well-trained general. He's a god. And I'm a flying monkey."

The swift rustle of undergrowth and the subtle swish of branches dictate the passing of more and more Wildlings. Wildling that are moving with determination, rather than fear, when a quick glimpse presents itself. And then it sounds... a sharp bellowing roar that cascades through the otherwise ominously silent forest with a fury and malice all of its own. It echos from the East , towards where the sound of running water seems to stem.

It would appear that whatever issued that call to arms - an inhuman call at that - is where the Wildlings are making haste towards.

"I've seen him practice with those swords before, back when I was in th' blades." Corriden notes, dryly. "He's pretty good, uses two at once. 'Course, us mere blades couldn't match the horsemen in th' first place." At the sound of the roar, both eyebrows twitch unseen, beneath his visored helm. "...Uh..."

Aiden Zahir shrugs dismissively and gestures with his exposed blade towards the east. "We can debate about an absent and likely dead prince all we wish at some later date. For now, there is further battle to be joined."

Thayndor Zahir's eyes widen at Vhramis' command, the longbow having finished it's arduous journey back into his hands. "They certainly don't care that we're here, so long as we don't attack them again," he says. "We need to know what's going on. I've seen enough of Wildlings to know that their matters mingle with ours at many points. You would have to agree with me, I think, Skinner."

Thayndor nocks another arrow, grunting. "Well said, cousin. Just -you- draw out the second one this time." Footfalls begin again, rhythmic with the young Zahir's breathing as he continues cautiously east.

Vhramis nods his head, kicking the dead wildling off of Dradin and rushing to retrieve his bow. "Then let's go," he nods, wiping the katar off as he can on the grass before sheathing it.

"Hey, Thayndor, when that thing clawed you, did it poison you?" Corriden asks, absently. He lifts his shield to the defensive position, jogging towards the east with a grimace. "You know, I really would rather not know what's this way." He adds, belatedly.

Dradin pulls his dirk out of the ground and scrambles to his feet, mumbling a "thanks" to Vhramis and kicking the fallen Wildling. "Yeah, not so tough now, eh!" he gives it another kick before running to catch up with the others.

Aiden Zahir spares a moment's glance for his kinsman, along with a wry and impish grin. "And deprive you the honor of the battle scars? I'd not dream of it, Thayndor. Besides, that is what we this pillock for," a gesture towards Dradin.

"I don't think so," Thayndor says quietly, sounding surprised. "The last time I was clawed, it was nearly immediate. Like fire through my whole body." The Zahir sets his jaw. "Cousin, the Wildlings are running out of places to scar me," he says, and with a grunt of aggression he shoulders past Aiden again on the way East. "Fine. If one jumps at me, try shooting it -before- it gets to me this time." His tattered cloak ripples behind him as he runs.

The Veiled Stand
 * As the sound of running water - that of a river, perhaps - gets louder, so too does the density of the forest. Thicker and closer together do the trunks of the ancient oaks get, as if the very trees themselves were attempting to block passage towards whatever rests to the east.


 * The wall of trees remains thick, but not impregnable, and the road between then remains obstructed by very little, making passage simple enough, regardless of the protestations of the bark that creaks and groans around you. Yet, while the path ahead may be free of natural obstructions, unnatural ones remain prevalent all the same.


 * The scattered corpses of Wildlings continue to litter the area - of both the silver mottled, and the more ominous black types. Splashes of crimson drench the ground below them, or the trees around them, while the deadly slashing marks of that which killed them remain sickeningly clear upon their tainted forums.


 * Deadly precise too, it would seem, for each slash seems to have been landed to cause the most damage to creatures with the least possible effort; major arteries severed, necks torn asunder, organs cleanly sliced through. The work of a hunter, and a warrior, without a doubt.


 * Yet these kills do not seem to have been easily won, for the signs of furious battle are evident all around you, should your eyes be keen enough to spot them. A battle fought between pure skill against deadly claws and greater numbers. A battle fought while on the move. A battle between a Hunter turned Prey, and a Prey the size of a small army.


 * The foreboding silence of a forest that should be teeming with life continues to scream out the loudest; broken only by the hiss of water to the southeast.

As they trudge over a number of corpses, Corriden notes to Aiden wryly, "If the rest of us poor mortal saps could have skills like this guy, we wouldn't need the big wall, apparently." He rolls a sore shoulder with a creaking of armor, stifling a sigh. "I'd kill for a beer right about now."

Aiden Zahir looks about, and for all of the carnage, seems patently disappointed. "No further Wildlings? How unfortunate," the Spymaster darkly muses, studying the almost seemingly choreographed layout of corpses and viscera. "Serath, for his artifice, could not have done this. One wonders ..." he trails off a moment in thought, before adding with pointed tone, "One wonders if this might be the handiwork of the Instrumentalist."

"Closer," Vhramis comments, an arrow readied as he moves along, seeming like he's trying to restrain himself from rushing ahead. "Answers will be ahead, I believe."

Thayndor Zahir shakes his head. "Did you and Serath come out here alone?" He asks, sucking air in through his teeth. "Still stings." The Zahir ducks his head to pass beneath a branch, nocking an arrow of his own.

Dradin stalks carefully forward, eyes surveying the corpses. "Instr'ment'list? I dunno. Think that'n would involve more fire 'n whatlike. An' eatin' fings whole and such."

The white noise of thundering water seems to get louder as you follow the Wildlings - fifteen now, that have passed by that you can count - towards the South East. The roar of bloodlust again shatters the otherwise quiet forest, though no animals scatter in terror. As it is devoid of sound, so too does the forest seem devoid of fluffy animals.

A roar that Vhramis might recall. Obsidian, crimson splotches, raptor-like talons...

"Naw, these are cuts. I was at Light's Reach when it blew up. This is nothing like that, and.. " Corriden pauses and stares towards the Southeast, eyes widening. "Why're we goin' towards this thing and not away from it?" He queries, with a scowl, although he doesn't stop walking in that direction.

Aiden Zahir does not question the movement onwards to the southeast, merely urging, "Again, remain quiet, focused, and close at hand. Whatever did this is highly dangerous. And may want to add us to the body count."

"There they are. The ones that were hunting us. Use your bows. Don't get close to it." Vhramis growls, gesturing to the large creature. "And for Light's sake, watch your shot. Serath is here." And he's off, moving closer for a better shot.

Daggerford Bluff
 * The density of the Sanguine Forest breaks without warning, giving way to an open landscape once more, devoid of tree or obstruction. Indeed, the view that the forest has abruptly given way to is one of perfect clarity, for you stand upon a rocky bluff overlooking a deep ravine, the hiss of water now dominant from the river that snakes around the landscape below.


 * The drop between the bluff and the river is, without putting too fine a point on it, deep; the crags of the rock that line the way between the elevated vista and the water below remaining predominantly vertical in their inclination. The river itself seems to be the Fastheld River - or, rather, a very northern part of it, evidently closer to the source than Fastheld itself is.


 * The cover is poor here, save for a few large and pointed rocks, and the few gnarled trucks of trees that have attempted to gain a foothold within the rocky ground, twisting with corruption as they failed to sustain themselves, before ultimately splintering apart from wind erosion as the decades have passed by.


 * The realm that exists beyond the Aegis is now revealed to you as you look down from this high vantage point; the forests, plains, mountains in the distances, and even a faint blue glow from far to the east. The river hisses with power below, sweeping over a shallow dagger-shaped ford further to the north, before cascading into much deeper waters soon after.


 * Yet that ford is not the only landmark of note, for further to the south, where the rocky terrain slinks downwards to a wide area of land before a great drop, a dagger-shaped promontory of grey rock stabs out over the expanse below the bluff. With a sheer drop on three sides of that promontory, it seems to be a dagger that has been thrust into the very heart of the abyss, with only one side - the base of the proverbial dagger - allowing passage back to solid ground.


 * One side that has been surrounded by a small army of Wildlings; Wildlings that snarl and bellow above the hiss of the river far below. Snarls and bellows that are second only to the song of blades that emanates from the tip of that dagger...

Dashing through the edge of the forest, beyond the treeline that separates the Veiled Stand from Dagger Bluff, your vision is abruptly forced to adjust to the change in lighting.

Leaving the near perpetual darkness of the Sanguine Forest in your wake, the open sky and clear vista that now spreads out before you seems almost blinding in comparison. The pale moonbeams fall upon the realm with radiant purity, casting all in a hauntingly beautiful light. Even the rocky terrain underfoot takes on a grace befitting of the clear night sky.

The hiss of a river is now clearly audible as it flows without restraint somewhere far below the elevated platform of the bluff itself, the shimmering of the flowing waters refracting the light with glorious elegance.

It all seems perfectly serene, and would be... yet as you draw closer to the ridge, you notice the lower level that extents beyond it, where a dagger-shaped promontory juts out over the sheer drop of the bluff itself.

It is at the base of this promontory that the Wildlings have rallied, it seems. Around thirty in number. With others occasionally dashing out of the forest, adding to the numbers as others fall to... something.

Aiden Zahir would spend a moment to marvel at the grandeur of the panorama provided. He would take the time to be slack-jawed in amazement at the strange beauty of the lands stretching far as the eye can measure, and ponder the implications such a sight might have for the teachings of Holy Mother Church. And for the expansion of the Empire. But, there are Wildlings about, and, by the looks and sounds, a battle already joined. By someone.

Dradin steps out into the moonlight and his eyes go wide. "Wooooow." He gapes at the scenery, speechless until his eyes reach the small army of Wildlings that have gathered. "Shite."

Thayndor Zahir draws up on the bluff, longbow with nocked arrow held near his waist. "That's the Fastheld," he says immediately, as if it was a pleasant surprise. "You can tell because the water is - wait." The Zahir squints when he notices the battle raging below. "By the Light, what is going on down there?"

"What /is/ going on down there?" Corriden repeats after Thaundor, reaching up to lift his visor so he can get a better look. "Whatever it is, it's fighting th' little bastards, so we oughta go help it." He replies, scowling at the sight. "Beautiful place, though." "Summat cleavin' Wildling arses," Dradin offers to Corriden and Thayndor.

Vhramis stares, body tensing, as he takes in the scene. "We need to help...somehow," he states, voice a whisper.

Thayndor Zahir snorts. "Sure. Help who?"

Continual observation of that dagger-shaped promontory that a small militia of Wildlings have gathered at - some larger than others, you notice - reveals a somewhat spirit crushing sight; for stood alone at the very tip of that jagged ledge, a single figure strikes a dramatic image indeed.

With his back to the vista of the landscape behind him, and nothing but a sheer drop to either side of him, a forsaken warrior stands alone in the face of countless Wildlings.

A tattered black leather cloak billows behind him as the updraft from the drop behind him catches it in its grasp; the obsidian ringmail armor seemingly torn in places, dappled with numerous slashes of crimson from lacerations earn from previous battles. His crimson-stained sandy hair drapes around his head with wild abandon, sweat glistening in the moonlight as twin blades slash back and forth in a deadly dance - one too quick to see, but with devastating results all the same.

The Wildlings themselves do not attack all at once, for the simple reason that they cannot; the narrow ledge that the promontory presents itself may not be an ideal location to be backed into - between an ocean of claws and a sheer drop - but it is at least defendable, for only one or two Wildlings at a time dare advance, and are quickly dispatched by those flashing blades.

Indeed, by the looks of it, the once white-rock of that ledge has since been coated slick in blood, corpses of fallen Wildlings scattered in a low-wall around the solitary Warrior, forcing others to climb over their kin. But that's just fine with them, as this isn't a battle - it's a last stand, and for the Wildlings, pure blood sport. The challenge being who can kill the Wildling Hunter first.

It would appear that this is an army of Wildlings that has been recently drawn away from others who dare pass through this region of land, apparently by that lone abandoned defender. Some of those among the tide of mottled skin sporting impaled arrows that they seem to take little heed of. Arrows that may look very familiar to a certain Steward...

Thayndor Zahir's jaw drops. "He's screening them," Thayndor says. "He's been screening them. From Us. It's the reason we've had such an easy time of it so far." Thayndor shakes his head, taking a half-step forward and then stopping. "It's ... /can/ we even help him?"

Dradin waves his blade around wildly in response to Thayndor. "'Elp 'im? Course we can! Draw the Wildlin's away from 'im, give him an easier time o' slicin' 'em up," he explains. He appears to sincerely think it's a good idea.

"What a bloody stupid thing to do." Corriden murmurs, dropping the sheild and longsword with a clatter and reaching up for the greatsword strapped to his back. "Well, we bloody well have to try. I don't know about you all, but I don't think I'd sleep too well if his nibs dies over there, huh? “The man looks at the water, frowning.

”Are we in arrow's range? Getting there's going to be a problem. Armored men sink like rocks."

Perhaps it is a bad idea, but Vhramis nods his head. "Find a defensible position and draw some away. If we can turn some of them around, he could strike from the back. He's aggressive, and would certainly take the offensive."

Aiden Zahir's expression goes from querulous to downtrodden in the blink of an eye. "Light damn it," he murmers, doing his best to seem forlorn over the Wildlings, those his eyes remain fast upon the lone man defending the precarious wedge of stone. "We can do nothing of the sort," the Spymaster rounds on the prevailing course of discussion. "We can no more clamber down to help him than fly. No, let the battle be fought, and either won or lost whilst we try and find another route ... to somewhere else. That is the reason for this distraction that we might move through unimpeded. We cannot imperil that course, and our -primary- objective."

Dradin rolls his eyes at Aiden. "Oh, sod your prim'ry objective. I'm wif Lord Corr'den on this'un."

The jutting promontory - Dagger Point by name - remains a level below the edge of the bluff you currently witness the battle below from. Like looking over the edge of building onto a balcony, before the main drop of that building falls away. However, the terrain leading to it seems steep, as if one wrong foothold could, itself, cause you to stumble into the ravine below.

However, the Wildlings seem to be finding a path down... maybe some skills of perception will show the way.

"Aiden Zahir, you fool," Thayndor snaps. "If we leave him, how long do you think they'll take before they find our scent - how much longer do you think he can stand?" He shakes his head. "No. We must buy him time and room to retreat. Draw them off to the side so that he can fight his way past and become a mobile menace once again." The young Zahir squints as he examines the rocks, looking for a path. "We could go down ..."

"The only reason they were drawn away was because of him," Vhramis nods his head. "With him gone, they'll be back for me, as they seemed to have just as much interest."

Corriden doesn't waste any more time arguing. While chewing on his lip and spinning the greatsword he holds in his hands, he happens to spot something. The large man takes off suddenly in a dead run towards a large rock, platemail clattering in protest at the sudden motion. He's not a fast guy by nature, but he builds up momentum as he runs like a boulder going downhill.

"... There," Thayndor finishes, raising his longbow and loosing an arrow that looks like it will meet a target emerging from behind a large rock some distance down a small path. Nocking another arrow, he too starts to wind his way deftly down the trail - the light leather having not protected him much against Wildling claws, but affording him some increased measure of ease in negotiating the narrow path.

Aiden Zahir snorts derisively at the twin rebukes of Dradin and Thayndor, his answer coming calm, measured, and cold. "Mind your tongues, all of you, lest you toe the precarious line of treason. Persist in your fool's errand if you wish, but you do so only to the end of encompassing your own doom."

Vhramis begins to descend after the group, making his way much easier than Corriden. The benefits of lighter armor, probably.

"This ain' Fast'eld," Dradin mutters at Aiden before descending down the steep hill with the others.

Dagger Point
 * Dagger Point: So named because of the shape that it has naturally been formed into - ergo, that of a Dagger. A Dagger that points towards a rolling landscape far below the altitude of the drop of Daggerford Bluff, reaching out into nothingness as it exists as a bridge between the rocky terrain of the bluff itself, and the expanse of the abyss below.


 * It is a V-shaped promontory, surrounded on two sides (three if you include the rounded tip) by a sheer vertical drop into the rushing river and jagged rocks far below, with the only access to and from this natural platform being at the base of the proverbial V, which remains the link it and the land around it.


 * The tree line of the Sanguine Forest remains a short distance behind it, with an expanse of rocky terrain resting between the two. All in all, it is not a place that one would like to find themselves backed into, for the term "Between a rock and a hard place" would be a valid evaluation of the situation one might find themselves in should that event actually transpire.


 * Which it has.


 * However, in this case, "Between an Army of Wildlings and a Very High Drop" would seem to be more apt, for standing his ground at the very tip of Dagger Point, his back to the sheer drop behind him, and his blades swirling and dancing in front of him, stands Serath Kahar; not so much fighting for his life as fighting with nothing to lose.


 * Wildlings of numerous kinds block all passage to and from Serath Kahar's position, for a veritable wall of claw and teeth have taken up position at the base of that promontory...

Onwards, the silver-clad Lomasa thunders.. And with all that armor, the term is very apt. It's downhill. He weighs nearly three hundred with his armor. Gathering speed, he begins to wonder if he's going to, y'know, actually be able to stop

Downward thrust to the ribcage. A following side-kick, crushing the kneecap. Two rabbit punches to the muzzle, followed by a deadly riposte, severing the forearm. The Wildling collapses to the side, falling to the depths below. Cloak flowing with every sweep of motion that the dance of the two blood-slick Scimitars make, the Prince of the Blood stands at the tip of Dagger Point, making his last stand.

The Wildlings themselves - with one new Wildling rushing to the battle rally to replace each one that takes it chances of downing this most interesting prey - don't seem to notice the flanking attack quite yet, so intent are they on the blood sport that's taking place before they. They snarl with brutal joy when a Wildling manages a hit, hiss in mocking laughter as the latest contender falls, snarl in annoyance as the human refuses to die easily.

Thayndor Zahir adds a hiss of his own as the Wildling he shot at escapes his first arrow, a next already nocked. Thayndor stops at a seemingly arbitrary middle distance, glancing beside to Vhramis. "Let's unload here and cover Corriden's charge," he suggests, raising the tip of the arrow slightly. His eyes narrow, his fingers relax, and the arrow flies towards one of the Wildlings near where Corriden enters the fray. It's a big sword. Not that it's a very intelligent way to come in, rushing a group of wildlings, but time is short and Corriden Lomasa... Is not a subtle sort of person. Thus far, amazingly enough, the single-minded creatures haven't noticed the flanking maneuver.

That is, until the large Lomasa, rather than slowing and trying to take on the rearguard sensibly, instead swings the broad steel weapon at the skinny wildling who'd taken the path before him earlier. A greatsword isn't a slashing weapon, intended to be razor-sharp, no. It's a cleaving weapon. Which is why, all things considered, alot of force must've gone into the blow to split the offending creature from one shoulder to hip in the semi-berserk desperation of his charge.

Vhramis can only try to keep up with Corriden as he pitches downwards to the swarm, though the man skids to a halt as he falls within accurate arrow range. Nodding his head to Thayndor, he lifts the bow and nocks an arrow. "Agreed," he comments. "Aim for the middle of the swarm." And he fires.

Dradin is rather glad he's wearing Pathfinder gear by now as he observes Corriden gaining momentum. He comes to a stop at the bottom, surveying the melee before tightening his grip on the crystal blade. The Freelander frowns, looking for a way in amongst the claws and teeth.

Aiden Zahir maintains his place at the rear of the grouping, and takes not one step forward towards the fray, 'guarding' the rear against any subversive attempts to cut off the intrepid and foolhardy adventurers from their only avenue of escape. Naturally, this means he leaves the rest to do the fighting, but them's just details.

Stop-thrust to the abdomen. Upward thrust to the ribcage. Pommel-strike to the right temple, with a left-slash to the sternum. A foot placed firmly on the chest of the creature provides enough push to remove an impaled Scimitar, Serath adopting yet another defensive stance a moment later, only to witness...

...a state of confusion among the Wildlings. The Wildling Hunter only killed one of their kind, yes? So why is there a second now existing as two halves behind them? As a collective whole, the Wildlings at the back of the pack seem to turn. All eyes fall upon Corriden. All mouths hiss. A whistle...

With deadly accuracy, an arrow glides with all righteous fury into the heart of the Wildling rally, striking a creature in the head and causing it to collapse on the spot, never knowing what hit it. Vhramis' arrow gets another kill. However, this merely seems to enrage the Wildlings further. How DARE anyone interrupt their play? And thus, they go on the offensive... One aiming for Corriden, one for Dradin, one for Vhramis.

"Hoshit." It's an afterthought, and as with all things he does, one that comes too little, too late. "Yeah, and there's more where that came from, too!" Corriden Lomasa bellows, two-handed grip on his greatsword tightening as he wades forward into the fray... Wishing he'd had time to develop better armor for his throat, which seems to be all too common a target.

"Two for me," Thayndor murmurs as his arrow strikes home with a shriek. Notching another, the Zahir draws a bead on the Wildling approaching Vhramis and fires without so much as a flinch.

Aiden Zahir murmers to himself as his compatriots, one and all, barrel headlong into the fray. Serath he could sacrifice to the Wildlings without batting an eye, but these headstrong men cannot be so easily sacrificed. Without them, he'll wander this blasted wilderness for the rest of what would doubtless be a short, very violently ended life. Shaking his head forlornly, the Spymaster begins to wade forth. If slowly. Quite slowly.

Corriden: The Wildling assault Corriden manages to get it's - quite literal - claws into him, pouncing upon the armored man with sheer fury and determination. Yet, for all the damage the Wildling attempts to cause, it finds itself vastly annoyed by the man's armor, which seems to deflect the blows it manages to land. Thus, the attempts only really succeed in scaring the hell out of the man, and pushing him back a little.

Dradin: The unfortunate Freelander is, again, not quite as lucky as Corriden, however, for leather is little defense against the claws of a Wildling, and this one happens to be particularly vicious. Getting the drop on Dradin, it pounces upon him, biting down on his shoulder while raking at his leg with a foot-claw.

Vhramis: Thayndor's well meaning arrow misses the mark, and the Wildling bears down upon the already battle-scarred Steward. Yet the combination of some quick footwork, and the armor he wears, saves Vhramis from the worst of it. A desperado side-step ends up with him suffering only the slash of claws across his chest that, while drawing lines of crimson, fail to dig in all that deep.

Corriden never counted on being a living testament to the quality of his own armor, but he does seem rather pleased that nothing's managed to slice him open like usual yet. Of course, this is a rather academic pleasure, as he's quite occupied with the matter at hand. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't ya?" He booms back, regaining his stability and footing as he raises his sword with a snarl. "I've got a sharp pointy thing too, pal. Give it a kiss!"

Even in the midst of battle, and horrendous odds, Aiden Zahir has never been a man without a flippant and sarcastic comment. "I hate to say I told you so ..." he murmers before sallying forth against the Wildling which so brutally accosts Dradin, steel sword lifting into a menacing, silver arc before crashing down in the direction of the fell creature, the Spymaster otherwise remaining silent, no yell of bloodlust, no grunt of energetic enthusiasm. Just cold, surgical precision.

"Light damned..." The rest of the words die down into something unintelligable as the claws rake across Vhramis' chest, despite his best dodging manuever. Though he finds himself in close proximity with the Wildling, at least he has appropriate weaponry. Shifting the bow to his other hand as he slips around, he yanks the fighting blade gifted to him by the Prince of the Blood out of his belt, and drives it upwards at the Wildling in front of him, seeking to bury it between it's ribs. Serath would be proud. "AAARGH!" Dradin screams in pain as the Wildling takes a chunk out of his shoulder. He still holds the dirk, however, and brings the blade upward, straight for the Wildling's neck. "Bastard!"

A vicious chop to the right leg, followed by a quick jab to the trachea sends one Wildling reeling away from the dancing Scimitars. Twin spin slashes across the face of another send that one into a recoil; blinding in one eye, it decides that it's had enough of these humans, especially with the fast approaching dawn, and thus quickly retreats, ignoring the plight of the others around it.

Exhausted, Serath falls to one knee, as few others seem to want to enjoy the moment now that these other humans have joined the fray. A bellowing cry from beyond the forest calls to the others who aren't currently engaged and soon, they too, begin to pull away from the conflict - leaving only the three Wildlings who are currently in battle to finish it off.

Dradin: Though the Wildling atop Dradin is in an excellent position to finish the job after a few very nice wounds into the ill-fated Freelander, Aiden waving his sword around in a menacing fashion seems to put the creature on edge, apparently torn between tearing Dradin up into smaller bits, or going on the offensive against the sword-swishing Zahir. The bellow from the forest seems to get the Wildlings attention more, though, and with a sharp snarl of malice, and a final jab at Dradin for good measure in retaliation for the prone man's attempt at trying to return the gesture, the Wildling leaps from atop the injured man and scurries away.

Corriden: Corriden's armor again proves to be an annoying feature of the man, one which the Wildling just doesn't have the interest to try and remove from the giblets that it would like to create first. Contemplating such an outcome, however, only gives it enough time to narrowly miss a sweeping cleave from that oversized sword again. Given how annoying this thing is, the Wildling decides to join it's departing kin...

Vhramis: Valacar - a blade that once belonged to Sirion Starkhorn, another Wildling Hunter of legend - is one that seems to be known to the Wildling that Vhramis levels it at. It avoids the first strike, and then a second, but seems reluctant to press the issue of being stabbed by something that has drunk much Wildling blood over history. It too, after snarling a guttural Wildling insult at Vhramis, departs...

As riled up as Vhramis is, he can see the luck in the fact that the creatures are withdrawing, and doesn't make an effort to chase, instead tucking the knife back into his belt. He looks upwards to the location where the Prince chose to make his last stand, and without hesitation, springs over towards him, seeming to ignore the additional wounds taken.

Corriden doesn't chase after the wildlings.. That much wit, he has! Reaching up to pull off his helm, the panting Lomasa leans on the hilt of his greatsword, sweat pouring down his face and matting his raven black hair as he greedily gulps in the air. "Hey, Kahar! You look like crap!" He calls out to the prince, with his usual utter lack of tact. Dradin swears as the Wildling retreats, looking at the bloody mess that used to be his shoulder. "Shades..." He struggles to his feet, grimacing in pain as he remembers the wound on his leg.

It is a good thing indeed that Aiden Zahir's head is encased within a helmet, and doubly so that darkness shrouds the realm, for these hide the deep, almost scowling smile which comes to bear as the Wildlings depart. Blade sheathed, head swiveling about warily, the Duke quickly hides his enmity, after a glance at the Prince of the Blood. "Were it not for that boon, you should all be dead, and I with you," he berates his fellow adventurers with a deep sigh. "We have been infinitely fortunate, this night."

Droplets of crimson drip to the floor around where Serath Kahar kneels; his cloak drapes heavily around his battered frame, the edges long since torn to shreds. His left hand - the Scimitar still tightly clasped in his hand - rests upon the ground beside him, evidently to keep him upright. The other hangs by his side, ready to come to life again at a moment's notice. His eyes are fixed firmly on the rock beneath him, breathing heavy.

"Light, give me strength." he whispers.

Thayndor Zahir tucks his longbow away, sighing. "Well, two. I shouldn't complain - I'm sure we'll have to do this again sometime soon." Thayndor raises his head to look on the exhausted form of Serath Kahar, and the Zahir walks towards the other man. "Earlier, we spoke of Wildling scars and marks of honor," he says, bravado unable to hide the exhaustion at the edges of his voice. Stopping several feet away - a distance which somehow deserves the descriptor 'respectful' - takes off his right glove, reaches under his spaulder, and comes out with blood on his fingers. "It looks like you've earned many more than I this night."

"Serath," Vhramis calls to injured man, voice quiet as he nears. "Serath," he calls again, knowing quite well how dangerous he can be, as well as the depths of his rage. Dropping slowly to his knees to kneel in front of him, he speaks in a hushed distance. "We're back, Serath. They're gone...for now. More have come in search of his Majesty."

From the secrecy his helm affords, Aiden lifts a brow expectantly as he catches Serath's supplication, and takes note, for the first time, of the man's wounds. Could there be hope that the Prince of the Blood has lost too much of the same to survive? Light forbid!

Though perhaps, if only in his mind, at least one man present silently prays for the opposite of Serath Kahar's entreaty.

"Allright, who can walk, and who do I carry?" Corriden calls out, approaching the prince with his helm under his arm. He looks the man over, then glances back at the wounded Dradin musingly. "We can't dally here long." He grunts, flashing a sheepish grin. "C'mon.. To yer feet, fancypants, if y' can."

"You shouldn't have come here."

The lament of the Prince of the Blood is, perhaps, somewhat confusing to hear considering all that those who came to his aid just went through. Yet there is no darkness in his tone. No pride, either. Just a sincere regret. He takes a deep breath, apparently finding stability enough to kneel without the support of his left arm.

"I was trying to buy you time to reach my brother. Keeping them occupied while you snuck by. These Wildlings... they're not like those of Fastheld. They're devoured by bloodlust. Crazed. Now that's all gone to waste..."

Thayndor Zahir shakes his head. "Regain your strength," Thayndor says. "You would've spared us nought more than perhaps an hour to slip past here, and what of the return journey - saddled, as we most likely would be, with the Emperor - and we do not know what condition he will be in when we find him." The Zahir sniffs, casting a pointed look back at Aiden before he returns his eyes to Serath. "As it stands, the Wildlings know you and will pick up the hunt again if spurred to, I'm sure. Please, return with us to our camp tonight. Regain your strength. If you wish, then begin again in the morning. Your duty outside the Wall, I think, has yet to end."

Now is hardly time for another 'I told you so', so Aiden says nothing of the sort, merely looking back up into the shadow-shrouded heights. "We should ascend and escape from here as soon as possible," he counsels. "Were the Wildlings to return, they would find us in as vulnerable a position as they left us. As long as we remain upon this outcropping, we are trapped."

"And you're foolish if we thought we wouldn't have," Vhramis replies to Serath, shaking his head. "Hearing your cry sent everyone rushing to you. And I know very well they're different..." He glances behind him to the rest of the party, before turning his attention back to the Prince. "They're right...we need to head back. I can help you, if you need"

"If we didn't come, we'd still be in camp. We're nowhere close to finding him. This way you can stick with us an' help us find him instead of going all martyr-like." Corriden replies, unfazed. He offers a meaty, gauntleted hand to the prince, with a grunt. "Anyways, something's calling th' tune to them, those roars, seems. If you have any clues as to where he might be, now's th' time to tell us, pal. Or would you rather be dead with us still wandering aimlessly? I tell you, it wouldn't have made a whit of difference. Now come on, we're leaving." No apology there!

Dradin limps over to Corriden, removing his helmet as well. The Freelander clutches his shoulder for a moment, wincing at the throbbing pain. He takes his gauntleted hand away to look at the blood staining the glove before offering Serath a quick bow, made awkward by his leg wound. "Yer Majesty," he says reverently, and nods to Corriden. "Yer want me to help 'im up?"

It isn't easy being the Prince.

"My Church is the field of battle. My strength is the holy Light." Whispering this warrior's prayer, Serath seems to find enough strength to push himself back upon his feet, swaying for a moment before the natural instinct of the Warrior kicks in again, honed by years upon years of combat training and experience, leveling his posture back into a defensive one, ready to pounce should the need arise. With the ice-blue gaze of the Imperial line burning with war-torn determination, Serath regards his companions with a stoic, bitter glance; a bitterness forged by days of fighting, rather than because of these people.

"You all bring honor to my father, my brother, and the realm." he offers; his tone filled with sincerity, compassion, and an almost forsaken pride. "But you MUST go without me. Before they return."

Aiden Zahir is hardly about to argue with a prince. Wouldn't be seemly! "Of course, Your Highness, if that is an -order-, we can only comply," the Spymaster acquiesces with a deep bow, not an easy feat in full armor. "Until we have found the Emperor, we must obey your wishes as were they His own."

The Lomasa isn't even taken aback. He plunks his helm back on and steps up beside the prince, trying to reach around the man's waist. "With all due respect, stuff it. We came this far. Now either walk with my help, or I sling you over a shoulder and carry you." He declares, baritone gruff and firm. Glancing to Dradin, he nods. "S'allright, tend to yer bleeding. Fancypants here is coming with us either way, like it or not." With that, the Lomasa looks back to the prince of the blood, with no deference-- Just challenge in his green eyes, visible with his visor raised. "Orders? Bullshit. We're outside of th' wall. We came down here, an' we're leavin' with what we came for."

Thayndor Zahir's face abruptly pales. "Shadow take it," Thayndor says, "We've divided our forces. It could be that the Wildlings are attacking those left at camp, or are about to. We'd best - gah, damn this shoulder - return with all speed." Thayndor angrily flicks blood from his fingertips onto the ground, sucking the rest off of his fingers before replacing his leather glove. Startled by Serath's declaration, his eyebrows raise, then lower, solemnly. He holds a hand, palm out, towards Corriden. "You don't think you're going to live long enough to do any more good than this," he observes to Serath.

"And what do you plan to do?" Vhramis asks, rising with him and watching him levelly. "Fight them more? You can hardly stand, at the moment." He nods his head in response to Thayndor as he considers the Prince, reaching a hand to drag it over the stubble stubbornly growing from his head. "What have you seen, Serath?"

"You don't understand."

The words are offered to Thayndor; the once silky purr of his voice now a strained with the fatigue of endless battles, stretched to the confines of endurance and grim determination to save these people from whatever has him spooked. His is a presence that has been through all fiery hell and back, his very essence pushed beyond all human measure, every skill and talent pushed to the limit. Haggard and war torn, there's a snap of frost to his tone, and a look of sheer desperation in his burning ice of his eyes. Fatigue smolders at the edge of his voice, yet his stances falters little, that feline-like posture remaining fully alert and ready to strike with deadly fury at the drop of a pin.

His blades twitch in his hands; those themselves raw with the brutality of the battles he's been encountering over the last few says, covered in dried blood and sores. Yet those blades - themselves slick with fluid - stand poised to dance once more; the blades nicked and battle torn, but otherwise effective. He breathes with the depth of the fall behind him, looking ready to collapse save for the warriors spirit that still keeps him standing.

A whistle

"You /have/ to leave! You-" The Prince of the Blood abruptly falls silent.

From the edge of the Sanguine Forest, nestled between two dead trees that failed to find life upon the rocky soil of Daggerford Bluff, a wild "WOOT!" of joy tears through the night air. The owner of that hoot stands at seven foot in height. Its skin is the color of burnt ashes, and the patches upon its body stand out as a dark crimson. Talons upon its feet glimmer obsidian in the moonlight, and a look of malice simmers within the fires of its eyes. A toothy grin flows around the black Wildlings features, the creature hooting a snarl again with the throes of joy, throwing a clawed hand up in the air as all other Wildlings fall silent, looking upon this elite creature with a new sense of awe and fear.

In that raised hand rests the reason for that almost innocent joy - a crude, yet apparently effective, beam of slightly curved wood, featuring a taunt string of wire running from one end of the other. If the human invention of fire or the wheel was anything to celebrate, the Longbow is apparently something of equal merriment for the Wildlings. Especially the one that wields it. The ominous glimmer of eyes in the dark haunt the shadows behind it.

Time seems to slow down...

The clatter of metal crashing upon stone breaks the silence, the clink of a Scimitar blade hitting rock following in its wake. One blade is dropped, the other left hanging from the offhand. Serath's focus wanes, his eyes widening with shock as he takes a step back from the impact of the arrow that is now firmly lodged in his shoulder; the tip jutting forth from his back, the tail quivering slightly in front of him.

The burning ice-blue of his vision fades; unfocused eyes falling upon the direction of the arrow is sheer disbelief. The last spark of his spirit seems to fade, yet a flick of a flame returns to him, gaze falling back upon those who came to rescue him. To those, he offers his final words, his voice barely a whisper:

"Run, you fools."

And then he falls, slowly; a stumble backwards sending him over the edge of the Dagger's Point, the fluttering of his cloak following in his wake...

Alas, how the mighty have fallen. And Serath does, with suitable drama for a Kahar. Aiden does not near the edge of that cliff, has no desire to peer down it to gauge the state of the prince, if it can be determined at all from such a height. After all, that 'woot'ing Wildling with the bow is still out there. And it would do no good to make of oneself a secondary target. "We must go ... NOW!" the Spymaster admonishes in words clad in iron resolve. "Quickly, lest we jeopardize everything which Serath fought to preserve." And with that, the wily Zahir turns to begin making his way back up the precipitous incline.

And Light be thanked that his back is turned, his helmet affixed, and his visor lowered. For had any the slightest clairvoyance by which to discern the Spymaster's expression, they would find a smile not unlike that of the dark assassin. A smile of pure joy.

"Well... Shit." Corriden murmurs simply, as his grasping hand misses the toppling prince. For a moment he just stands there, trying to process what happened-- Then he spots the wildling with the bow. The heavily armored Lomasa stoops to pick up the scimitar, lips twitching with anguish. Righting himself, he flips down the visor and plots after the group, content to take the rearguard, as his style of armor is less vulnerable to projectiles than the others.

Vhramis' eyes widen as he turns as regard the familiar wildling. He's grown accustomed to the larger sizes...though he hasn't seen any with weapons. Perhaps only half away of Serath's fall, he draws his longbow from his shoulder and nocks an arrow, firing back, not quite caring if he hits or even reaches.

Thayndor Zahir jumps back at the impact of arrow to flesh, the longbow returning to his hands once again. Eyes wide in amazement, he next steps forward, an attempt to catch the Kahar only too late, then -

"I believe we have but one option left." The cold Zahir pragmatism returns with an arrow nocked to his bow as he turns, drawing, aiming at the hunter and returning fire. "Go, start running. Vhramis and I will attempt to cover our advance." His arrow whistles up into the night.

This whistle of the arrows of Thayndor and Vhramis are returned in kind by those of the Wildlings that have discovered a new toy; most of the arrows that scream down at those below are crude in nature. Yet some seem to have been crafted with the care and quality befitting of something made in Fastheld.

As the arrows rain down in return, and Vhramis moves accordingly, something brings him pause. A brief tickling at the back of his mind causes him to bend and scoop up one of the fired wildling arrows, dropping it into his quiver as he runs to catch up to the group.

"Well," Thayndor says, trading his longbow for the roundshield among the various accoutrements he holds at his back and picking up his pace, "That perhaps isn't the most effective idea." Pushing into a flat-out uphill sprint, the Zahir spares no time except that required to pull a steel sabre from the scabbard at his hilt. Serenity gleams under moonlight as he holds his shield over his head against the arrow hail and strives to climb the mountain path.

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