They both roused to attention at the call, stopping in tune. Breklinn’s eye sought the dark, then the pursuant who pointed out the arm that’d stuck out. His expression was hardly pleased and not near as rife with relief as hers, mainly for the content of the words.

“ I can’t tell if you’re begging for an arsekicking or just trying to be cute in the face of barely cheated death, but neither is working. “ He yelled out, one hand on his hip as he refused to move a muscle to help the man.
“ Definitely not the latter, I assure you. “ Breklinn cut in with a sour expression about her, jumping into the underbrush to go fetch her rogue Dawnling. Oliver watched her go, her shape meandering past the little shroudfires, dagger still in hand and positively marching like she meant to gut Syr Faramund. Instead, once she reached him, she grabbed an outstretched arm, wrist to wrist, and pulled.

“ Here— “ She said, slamming the blade hilt first into the dawn knight’s hand. “ You lost this. “ Don't you ever do it again.

“ Are you quite alright, Syr Faramund? “ Oliver spoke out at the two, Syr Breklinn’s shape hassling around to stomp out some of the shroudfire around them. For effect, she slapped the man on the back twice like she was urging on a prize horse.
 
It gladdens me to know you remain your usual, cheerful self, syr, thought Faramund, swallowing down a retort for discretion's sake. Turning instead to the dusker bearing down on him, the dawnling smiled as she gave him a hand up, her expression one of false annoyance. 'Evidently not well enough, if you managed to find it.' Rubbing at his chest, he wiped the dagger clean on his sleeve before returning it to its sheathe.

Your eyes betray you, lass. Any more and I might just start weeping myself.

Drawn to the sound of Oliver's voice, Faramund made his way over to the Pursuant as Breklinn sought more flames to snuff out. Faramund studied the man as he approached. Boy, does he look pissed. 'Depends on who you ask, syr,' he replied, his legs and back aching dully in response to his words. 'I'll probably be feeling it come the morning, but for now - I'll manage.' Whole, and lucid with it. A better outcome than he'd expected, all told.

'And you, syr? I weren't the only one in the thick of it, though, that black plate o' yours seems to have done its job amicably.' A few fresh scars here and there. No breaches that he could see. Don't mean he ain't ailing, though, Faramund mused, a throatful of ash and bile harshening his tone.
 
He’ll manage. They’d all have to manage, that was for sure.

“ Swordpoint grazed the shoulder, but I’ll be fine. “ He assured, trying where the bastard had managed to slip it, with so much mounted force. Died down to a dull ache. “ Like you said, we’ll get by as long as we have to. “

“ Then lay down at the monastery and not get up for a couple days, hmh? “ Breklinn added at them, branches snapping as she hunted down the last of the tiny blazes. Oliver hazarded some humour at that, shrugging.

“ Perhaps. Naught a sturdy drink and a soft bed can’t fix. “ He better his grip on the hammer that’d hung slack at his side, forgotten and held lightly as a bird. Just about.

“ What with our quarry proper splattered about the trees— “ His eye regarded the scene once over, before he made to turn on heel towards where they’d come. “ It’s safe to say we’ve naught left here. “

Betwixt the trees, a blaze was getting larger.

“ I doubt there’s anything to be done about the house either, what with— “ Kaarle setting it on fire. He paused, blowing out a breath as he begun for the road in a brisk march.

At least none of ours died. Not when he’d last seen them, at the very least. But damn if it hadn't been too close for comfort there, for a scalding minute.

“ Results is results. We ought hasten back to see what we’ve actually wrought. “

Congratulate ourselves later.
 
'Soft beds? So much for shared hardships.' The quip came and went, easy as you please. Suppressing a guilty smile, Faramund did nothing to avoid Breklinn's questing hand as it caught him upside the ear. 'Idiot,' she spat. 'When're you gonna learn to keep your big mouth shut, huh?' Fires quelled, the dusker held to the dawnling's shadow as they hastened to follow Oliver, his black armour helping him to blend into the night.

'When you stop grinning like a lovestruck fool, that's when.'
'Bite me!'
'Is that an invitation?'

Faramund heard the blow before he felt it. Cursing, he bit his tongue before it could land him in even deeper water. The Pursuant spoke then, his words perfectly timed to cut through the chaff of their conversation to the meat of the matter. 'Aye, syr,' replied Faramund, 'speed might serve us well. If we're lucky, we may even arrive in time to stop Kaarle and Stone Golem from going at it.' Though, my money would be on Syr Hoffren. The man was hard as stone, and twice as ugly, though, the same could be said of Syr Leinas.

Hmm, maybe we should hurry.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom