Open Up in flames [M]

[Venla Thiel]

Trigger warning: violence, gore, death, attempted sexual assault
​

The first thing Venla felt was pain. Sharp and pounding somewhere deep inside her skull.

She blinked and grimaced at the bright daylight flashing as she opened her eyes. The world was a blur of mud, blood, and black smoke. The stench of whatever is burning filled her nose along with the metallic smell of ripped guts and the heavy earth. Someone screamed somewhere. A blade cut it off, whereupon a rasping, wet, gurgling noise that begged for mercy.

Someone picked her up and rolled her over on her back. Her head lolls to the side. A man with rough, calloused fingers yanked her skirts up over her hips, exposing her thighs to the air. She forced herself to keep still; he still believed she was unconscious. The man above her was one of the bandits. His breath soured by hours gulping wine before the raid and his tunic already pushed up. He mutters something in a language she only half understands. Words that make her stomach twist with rage.

His sword, a worn blade, was within her reach. Carelessly tossed aside in the rush. Her heart pounded like a war drum, as she took short and shallow breaths through her nose. Not yet. Not yet.

He fumbled with his belt, distracted.

Now.

Her hand shot out and gripped the hilt of the sword. The leather wrapped handle was slick with sweat. She didn’t aim, she just trusted and hoped. The sword hit something, and suddenly, blood was everywhere. She rammed the blade into his throat before he could blink. It tore his throat in half, cutting through muscle, windpipe, cartilage and artery. The man made a weird noise as blood bubbled from his lips. He tried to pull away, but she trusted the blade to further split his neck, feeling the grind of steel against the bones of the spine. The man shudders, and slumps forward on top of her. A flood of hot red spilled down over her face and chest. Venla shoved his limp body off herself before pushing herself up onto her feet. Had she actually... killed a man?!

The blood was hot, sticky, and smelled so much like metal. Something in her stomach squirmed. She had not expected it to be so...so much.

The convoy had been traveling along this road carrying goods and wealth between the market in the city and the small village. They had left the city that morning, bound for Arrowdale, wagons heavy with grain, wine, and more, meant to supply the inn for the coming months. But now, just a few hours later, the convoy was ruined.

The guards were fighting back, but they were outnumbered. A few had formed a desperate shield wall, knee to knee, near one of the wagons. The lead wagon was on fire, big flames licked at the sky, smoke thick and choking rose like a black pillar. Another wagon had tipped over, its cargo of bottles and barrels shattered, spilling wine across the dirt...

 

[Gregoryan A. Archambeau]

Gregory had heard the rumors of the growing instability in North Ilica, had heard tales spun into song by traveling bards. Growing strife meant a possibility of work and opportunities to showcase his skill with the blade and horseback. He had spent enough coin to purchase salted jerky and bread to last the journey back north before seeing a blacksmith to sharpen and hone the edge of his sword's blade.

He had purchased a new blanket, saddled Steadfast and set forth to begin his journey north at a leisurely pace, doing his best to limit possible injury to his mount. His armor was wrapped in oil to keep it from rusting and secured with rope to his saddle. As his travels brought him closer to the north, the rumors of the bandits and their deeds grew more common until he found himself hunkering down to ride out a storm in the ruined remains of a barn. The burnt wood had still smoldered, faint wisps of smoke rising on the late afternoon breeze.

As the fat drops began to fall, the ground hissed as he slid from the saddle and guides Steadfast into the meager shelter the husk of the barn provided. He pulled an apple from his pack and fed Steadfast as he began to remove the saddle and tack before brushing him down. He rolled his blanket up into a ball, tied Steadfast to one of the sturdiest looking beams and lay down to sleep.

He broke his fast with a piece of jerky, his teeth worrying at the leathery meat as the sun began to crest the horizon. He pulled his modified chainmail hauberk over his head, sliding his arms into the sleeves before cinching his belt at his waist. He checked the straps and tightened where necessary, adjusting the location of the pommel of his bastard sword before saddling Steadfast and swinging up into the saddle. Gripping the reins, he guided Steadfast out and around the remains of the farm to resume his journey.

As the sun began to reach its zenith, the faint curls of black smoke drew his pale gaze. The sounds of skirmish soon followed. He reached for one of his lances, sliding it from its notch on the saddle and lifted it so the head was pointed skyward, the sun reflecting off the metal, before nudging Steadfast into a slow canter.

Cresting a small rise brought into view the chaos of the attack unfolding. Spotting grouped resistance in the form of a shieldwall, all wearing similar markings or colors, led him to believe they were the guards or hired escort.

He spun Steadfast in a small circle before nudging him into a gallop, his metal-shod hooves flinging clumps of wet earth behind them as he slowly lowered the head of the lance as he closed the distance and then with a resounding clash, he was charging into the thick of the bandits, impaling one on the lance and carrying him several feet before the shaft snapped and he fell away. Reaching and drawing his bastard sword, he set about him, swinging with strong overhand strikes and stabbing down.

Clearing the convoy, he brought Steadfast to a slow and he swung back around, bringing his large warhorse to another gallop and slamming into another massed group of bandits, swinging on one side or the other with his bastard sword.

Slowing once more, he swung from the saddle, his boots sinking slightly under his weight as he turned and began stalking forward. A bandit charged him and he turned the bastard sword horizontal and caught the swing on the broadest point before shoving the man backward and punching him in the face with his gauntlet-clad fist before swinging a powerful overhand horizontal swing that saw the man cleaved from shoulder to mid-chest before he withdrew his blade.

Grinning from beneath the curled horns of his helm, he began walking toward the next group of bandits, his armor splattered with blood.

 

[Trevor]

Wine was the first thing he noticed. Not the screaming. Not his head rining...rinding..ringing? Not the blood running behind his ear. Just the wine. Still not fully aware, he'd reach out for something wooden and got splinters. Rolling to a sit, he would finally fully appreciate the wine cask that'd been so rudely introduced to his face. The taste in his mouth wasn't all copper, it was also a vintage. Would've been decent if he didn't decide to add spice to it with his own liquid.

Whatever they hit him with, he got knocked into the wine cart. That wasn't good luck or bad. It just was. Balance. He knew one of these would end his life one day, but not yet. Because Luck was a bitch.

„You 'erd me.“ Should've been an exclamation. Should've been louder. Should've been complete. But the jaw was not fully his just yet.

He wiped his face as clean as he could by wiping on the sleeve of a dead guy next to him. That was how you killed a man! Proper. None of this dizzy bullshit. Once he got the taste of himself away from his lips, the cask broke easy. Small mercies of the road. So he drunk. Slow. Deep.

Sweet. Too sweet. And he understood. The world doesn't balance on sweet.

He recognized the next scream. It was the one you let out before you let breath out.

They could've just killed us. Taken the grain. Left. Easy, paid on both ends. Balanced. But no! These types. His types. Always wanted more than they should.

Unsure whether it was blood or wine that made the world tilt without luck, he stumbled out. He didn't bother looking for a weapon. If something sharp was needed, there he was. The rest world would provide. It always did.

Someone was charging for him. Too quick. Too eager. A half dead man who couldn't defend himself. Too lucky.

So he flung his coin purse towards the charger. The luck of the wine just enough for it to hit him proper. The man recomposed himself quickly as the coin was tucked somewhere.

Until it wasn't.

Correction came as a horse of all things. The crunch of bone always reminded him of pork cracklings. Flesh was messier.

One dead. And the smell of necessity. He was thankful there wasn't a name to forget today.

She really was a bitch.

Screaming and smoke. More of them around. Balance wasn't done.

Time to pay the price.

 

[Venla Thiel]

Shields, swords, spears, and daggers lay scattered among the dead and dying. Venla barely thought before snatching up a spear, its iron tip dark with blood. It felt awkward in her hands, heavier than she expected. She was not a warrior, she had not spent years drilling with weapons.

A sudden movement made her turn.

One of the bandits charged toward her, sword raised, his roar splitting the air. She had lifted the spear instinctively, more for balance than defense. And then...

He ran straight into it.

The iron tip punched through his eye socket with a wet crunching sound. The man's own speed drove it deep, the force of it jolting up her arms. His knees buckled and his hands desperately felt over the shaft now lodged in his skull. He screamed in a way she never heard a man scream, blood spurting from the hole his eye used to be.

Venla stood frozen, breath trapped in her chest. She hadn't meant to strike. She had just moved. He had done it to himself. She screamed too. Not one of victory, but a panicked scream. She staggered back, letting go of the spear.

She forced herself to stay upright. To focus. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking.

Then she saw him. A warrior, cutting through the chaos with the ease of a man who had done this a hundred times before.

The bandits were quick. Lightly armored. No heavy mail to weigh them down, no gleaming plate to slow their steps. Just leather, cloth, and stolen steel.

Somewhere beyond the smoke, an arrow whistled through the air. It struck wood with a dull thunk, lodging deep in a broken cartwheel not far from Venla stood. Another followed, flying past her shoulder, so close she could feel the wind of it.

They had archers.

And she had no shield. No armor. No plan.

 

[Gregoryan A. Archambeau]

Gregory was in his element. The thrill of battle was almost consuming. The chance to pit his mettle against that of another in armed melee was every knights' dream. His body transitioned like a well oiled machine from one position to the next, his blade moving up and over to come swinging downward in a diagonal slash across a bandit's chest, the man falling away screaming as he spun away.

This time his blade came up horizontal to block the downward slash aimed at him, the two swords clinking audibly before he kicked out with a large booted foot to the man's midsection, causing him to stumble backwards with a grunt before the large bastard sword cleaved his head from the man's shoulders. His pale blues darted here and there, looking for the next skirmish, his eyes spying a woman, her mouth twisted into a scream, though he couldn't hear her over the clashing sounds that were loud, so very loud. All clamoring for attention and nearly overwhelming.

He set his booted feet to moving towards her, the painful thump of an arrow denting one of the pieces of plate had him crouching down and doing a twisted parody of a hobble to her. Once there pale blues eyes began running over her body, looking for signs of injury or harm. Seeing none, he drew the sword on his hip, smaller than his bastard sword, yet still mighty and sharp in its own right. He thrust it into her chest, nodding.

Looking around he spotted one of the wagons and quickly wiped the bloody blade on his pants before sheathing it in the special scabbard at his hip. Gauntlet-clad fingers dug into the wood and muscles bulging, he ripped a man-sized chunk free. Turning it vertically, he used it as a makeshift shield and began slowly march-walking to where archers were firing in loose formation at the convoy.

 

[Trevor]

Even before the whistle, he knew to bend down. Couldn't explain it, up just felt wrong. It struck inches above his head. Shook like it had second thoughts. So he followed along the shaft, tracing the line to where they were. Slight high ground. Three of them. No. Five.

Two of them were almost ready to let loose again. But not at him. Their eyes were on the knightly fella. It seemed like he repurposed half a wagon as a shield. Nifty trick that. So he muttered a silent apology as he repurposed luck of the archers. A slight tug, then anything but. They wouldn't miss. They wouldn't even need to aim. All their arrows would most surely hit something. So they drew. And as the arrows were starting to come loose, he took all their luck back.

One string snapped and hurt the hand holding it.

Another looped back on the archer's nose with crunchy sound. It would've been delicious in different circumstances.

Final one just realized it was frayed for too long and gave up.

There were two more, but he didn't dare alter the balance further. He hoped the knight wouldn't get too badly hurt from the luck bolstered arrows. But no time to worry about that.

Needed to get behind cover.

He used the chaos to duck behind another cart. No arrows here at least. A tiny one was looking at him. Biting on something. Not making a sound. Smart. Smarter than most men he knew. He wasn't used to dealing with kids since he was one himself, so he just nodded at her. Not fully seeing her reaction, his eyes would focus on the boots behind her. There was no time for friend or foe. For questions.

The wagon was old. Loaded too heavy, crates stacked too high. The wheel was rusty. The axle needed repairs. World was prime of lucky coincidences who kept talking to each other long enough for this to happen somewhere else. To someone else. Not today. He made them all quiet and they remembered all the imperfections. All at once. Not waiting to see if the avalanche would crush the child too, he simply yanked her out. The man died quiet. Almost like he was expecting his fate. Gods he hoped not. That would've been depressing.

He could still feel the balance shifting, so he simply ran towards the one person he was relatively certain wasn't a bandit. A ginger like him. All bloodied and messed up. No time for gentle, he half dragged half carried the child. Thank gods for the giant. No one was looking at the little folk. Gave them more time.

He expended the last bits of accumulated luck as he slid behind a cart that had a chunk taken out of it.

Safe. Hopefully.

 

[Venla Thiel]

The archers, positioned on high ridges in the forest on different sides of the road. Venla could hear the low twang of bowstrings pulling back. Her body felt the promise of death as the arrows were released. Then, as if Fate decided to tip the scale, some arrows faltered mid-flight. One snapped clean in two, its jagged end splintering into the air. Another veered wide, its shaft plunging into the dirt, and the last one wrapped back, striking its own archer across the face.

She was too focused on staying upright to notice the knight approaching her until he was right there. He approached too quickly, his sword in hand, and her pulse spiked. Venla was barely able to process the sight of him, his large frame covered in armor, his sword, a brutal sword of a bastard, the fuller overflowing and dripping with blood. His pale eyes met hers. The metallic taste of fear burned in her throat.

But then, before she could react, the man tossed a small blade to her. She stared at the blade in her hand. "Wha.." Her voice was lost in the overwhelming noise, the screams, clashing steel, the dull thud of arrows bouncing of armor. A man with red hair appeared at her side. Before she could register what was happening, his hand was on her arm, pulling her away. His fingers dug into her skin, iron tight, and without a word, he yanked her toward the nearest cart. Together with the man and the child she stumbled into the shadow of a cart.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice weak, her mind struggling to catch up to the madness. She carefully peered over the edge of the wagon. The smoke from the nearby fire hung thick in the air. Her mouth was dry. Venla quickly ducked down behind the wagon, her eyes flickered nervously the man and the child.

@Trevor @Gregoryan A. Archambeau

 

[Gregoryan A. Archambeau]

Thunk.

Thunk.

The repetitive thunks of bodkin points striking deep into the granules of the makeshift wooden shield told him that he had garnered the attention of some of the archers if not all. He bit his lip when one arrow struck and bounced off the armor of his knee. It would bruise all colorful shades come morning but he could move, the adrenaline dulling the pain as he march-walked more.

Step.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The motions repeated, the shield growing slowly heavier as it began to sprout more feathered shafts. The battle cry alerted him he could finally lower the top of the shield to see over the top. The archers were no less than five to ten feet from him and had drawn their short swords. They were charging at him in en masse, bellowing whatever passed for their approximation of a war cry. Grinning, he turned the makeshift shield horizontal and charged back at the archers, digging his toes into the soft earth to build speed. The archers realized their error and drew up short and began to try to turn but it was too late. There was a brief delay in his movement, momentum encountering resistance before they were all laid flat by the shield now battering ram.

He drew his bastard sword and stabbed down into the throat of one man trying to crawl away, his scream fading to a gurgle. Pulling his blade free, he stomped down on the foot of another, crushing it. A third he impaled his sword threw their spine, pushing down until the blade bit into the soft dirt of the earth before withdrawing. Wiping his blade clean on a dead man's jerkin, he sheathed it and walked with slow and measured steps toward the last of the group trying to crawl away.

Gauntlet-clad fingers reached out, digging into the skin of the man's back through his jerkin as he gave a grunt as he lifted him over his helmeted head, the man screaming and begging for mercy. Turning back toward the wagon, he gave a few quick steps and threw with all his strength, the man flying through the air to land with a thud against one of the wagons. Wiping his hands on his pants, he slowly gazed around, looking for signs of conflict. Seeing none for the moment, he trekked back down the hill, looking for the small woman.

 

[Trevor]

So he guessed correctly. That put his mind at ease. It was hard to tell with games of chance.

„N'one 'mportant.“ He'd state correctly, pulling the child forward. She grabbed him like she grabbed whatever she chewed on. He shook her loose a mix of care and hurry. Recognizing the same dull haze in the woman's voice that his head was pounding with, he tried to be gentle. „T'ke the kid. Kee' 'er safe“ tiny hand pressed into the woman's. He'd risk a glance over their cover and see that the steel giant was still progressing.

And then turning back to make sure they were both focused. Like it was important. „S a lucky spot. Stay low till the archers're dead.“ Not if. When. The armor clad war machine wasn't a guess, it was a countdown.

He stood up, each joint refusing to unfold easily. Confident in their idea of staying bundled up, staying down. „Got work.“ And with that he was out of cover and back into the mess. He'd played with the balance of this place for far too much. Corrections were in order.

He was already leaving when he heard it. A high pitched scream above, followed by a thud of flesh against a wagon. Blinked and understood, that kind of strength only came from one direction. That meant they'd both be safe. Good.

They wouldn't see him again that day. Only the many small accidents he left behind.

 

[Syr Montbank]

Enveloped in the eddies of the air were the remarks of toils transpiring and hoisted up to the sky for nature's ears to hear. The yearning pull of arrow, the tensions in the rhythms of intentions to do harm, the availing against those that would close the eye and profit from the blindness, release. So lashed to the whims of the wind was each minute detail of the violence that did their best to render their need for stillness in the other, and did ripple their message that there was chaos in the steel so bandied and born and beared.

Each bodkin arrow did ruffle the air and puncture what silence was the land's to return to once all was spent. The trees did make mockeries of most sights to see their arching weapons that trembled with each shot. Quick snap cord that sent for the bristling weapons that sang their way to marks, puncturing shield, thudding into wagon, pressing their points to persons. The backline that offered their support of men who died in front, the vultures that did encroach and circle in body low and hiding gait. The air did carry the deeds performed in the tapestry of pains unfurling, grunts of exertion, boots grinding against the ground, greeting between the availing, shield wood fracturing, yearnings spoken rapid for mercy. A cart shuddering as the defeated were cast aside.

Yellow eyes affixed high above did precise glean the tremble of the bow and the creak of their drawing weapons, the notching of further arrows to blanket heavy their foes. Saw beyond those that defended themselves that further threats did shamble in their hiding threat, few in number, patient in their approach.

White wing against the white cloud that avoided the clarity that the smoke wished to provide as it trailed from the burning. The dip of wing to set the motion speeding from up high, a descending bolt of silence casting itself down against the rippling blasts of brigands that shuffled about, pack animals that did linger and amass in distance for want of their opportune moment to strike.

The grounded stalking archers that thought themselves concealed did not see his coming, the silence was theirs to break. As they raised their bows to tear their arrows from them, they did release their own pained report as talons did make make their scathing slashes and tearing. Arrow flying wild and high in vain. White of the snows in the wings that erupted out the claw, and tearing out the sword were the gleam of cuts delivered as ground gripped.

Montbank performed as his duty did demand, the archers that thought themselves safe for distance and their skulking were now were set upon by his fervours. Shocked bows that fell to ground along with bodies, daggers drawn by those who were sprung upon in chaining successions of melee that Montbank's longsword did answer. His wings that broadly propelled and sleekly dipped to avoid retort as his agility danced against their desperations. Steel met steel, yellows eyes meeting without flinching the need of vultures to feast, weapons in hand and cuts outreaching. Calmness and efficiency in his swiftness, fresh faced to the final surprise of lurking archers for those who had been set upon.

These archers some distance away from the two that had survived, Montbank whirling about their ends, yelps of pain as the archers found their plans and themselves quickly in tatters, bloodied and forestalled, panicked and pressured. Bows upon the ground, daggers that clashed and clattered, matters that were being handled, flashes of defeat promised by white feathers that glowered.

@Venla Thiel @Gregoryan A. Archambeau

 

[Venla Thiel]

A lucky spot.

"Keep her safe" the man had said. Venla felt the child’s small hand pressed against hers like a weight. She wrapped her arm around the child. Venla nodded, as if to confirm she would do as the man had asked. She crouched lower, tucking the girl behind her Her own fingers were shaking. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or fury "Don’t go!" she pleaded as she watched the redhead slip away from the cover. But he didn’t stay, didn’t even glance back.

Venla crouched low, pressed against the side of the wagon, her breath shallow. Each arrow that thudded into shields, armor or wood sent ripples through her nerves. Above, the sky shrieked, but not with thunder, but something sharper. Wings? A blur of white against the treeline. Just a bird. An eagle, maybe?

She held her breath, but it wasn’t more bandits. The arrows came slower now. Fewer men to fire them, perhaps. Or fewer brave enough.Venla dared to peek. She blinked, and for a moment caught sight of a white streak slicing down into the trees, then the sudden cries of men. Wings flashing, steel singing, ending things. The last of the archers were fleeing, or trying to.

Closer still, the giant knight was finishing his own brutal chapter. She had seen his shield become a wall for quills, and then seen him use it, not just to survive but to crush. And gods… when he raised that one man overhead and hurled him against the wagon, Venla flinched.

She realized, distantly, that the girl was crying. Quiet. The sound brought Venla back to herself. They couldn’t stay here. “We’re leaving.” she whispered. “Now.”

She stood, slowly, keeping the child pressed hard against her side. The child clutched her skirt, hiding her face. Around them, survivors, were limping away from the wreckage. Some helped others up. Most simply fled, casting glances over their shoulders. The surviving bandits, those not butchered or thrown, were also running. A few dropped their weapons outright, boots pounding into the treeline. A lucky few made it.

The sound of armored footfalls thudding against the blood-soaked ground grew louder with each step. Venla turned, her breath catching in her throat. The knight came walking toward the wagon, sword slick and dripping, armor flecked with all kinds of body fluids.

The girl in Venla’s arms stiffened, then thrashed. “N-no, no!” she shrieked, wrenching free before Venla could react. Small legs pumping, the child bolted. “Wait...! Stop...!” Venla cried. The child darted into the underbrush, blindly fleeing the very knight who’d saved them. “Godsdammit..” she hissed. But she did not blame the child, the knight looked more like a siege engine than a man. Blood streaked the edges of his plate. Venla stepped back instinctively, her heel sinking in the mud.

@Syr Montbank @Gregoryan A. Archambeau @Trevor

 

[Gregoryan A. Archambeau]

Gregory's pale blue eyes blazed with the inner fires of battle. His gaze flitted left, right, up and down, seeking the next threat, the next incoming projectile he would need to react to. Armored feet clumped forward, one after the other, again and again, nearly mechanical. Dented plate protested against the movement, still he strove forward. Fingers curled tight with a familiarity born from years of use around the leather-wound grip. Small droplets of blood beaded at the tip of each finger before dropping to disappear among the broken stalks of green.

The shriek from young lips brought the lumbering metal giant to a halt, struck through the enveloping fog of battle to bring him snapping back into reality. The painful cries of wounded and dying men were a near physical assault on his ears, the crackle of flames as they caught on the wood of the wagons and burned a physical representation of the stench of death and dying that hung like a thick, cloying cloud over everything.

Pale blue eyes blinked.

Watched the young girl tear free of the familiar woman's grip and darted into the underbrush, vanishing from view.

One booted foot sank into the soft soil as he stepped closer, pale blue eyes widening as the woman instinctively took one step back - a physical reaction born of the terrible visage he evoked. Pale blue eyes sheepish as he allowed himself to witness the monstrous form he had become. His armor was covered in a splattering of blood, a madman's living canvas. His sword dripped gore from the sharpened edges, blood running in rivulets down the grooves in the broad expanse of the blade.

He crouched, armored knee sinking into the damp earth as he shifted the blade to drag the flattened edge over the grass. He repeated it again, and again, until the steel reflected a dull sheen. He slid the blade back in to the modified scabbard on his hip and rose to his full towering height once more. He considered removing his helm and then thought better of it with the danger still possible. He took one step, then another until he stood an arm's length from the young redheaded woman, slowly lifting and extending a hand for her to take.

@Syr Montbank @Venla Thiel

 

[Syr Montbank]

Montbank's feathers did shiver as the the combat was carried to it's final gasps from shunt of metal. No crimson mark upon the feathers that did tremble from conviction carried, from bodies stilled. Sword within the talons, still drawn, lingering in the fighting mind. The sounds of struggle receded. Rattling breath muting themselves as they did conceed themselves to fatal stillness.

Montbank heard the footfall, the feet within the mud, the goings on of fear. Head turning quicker than the trunk that carried it, Montbank's eyes were upon them. Sharp focus from distance serving the minute detail. Attentions drawn against the whetstone of need. He knew not of the intention of the one that did outreach. But Montbank felt he should be a witness to prevent further confusion, to guard what gates of decency that did swing wild upon the hinges.

Feathers formed themselves upon the back as tight bound cloak, tension in their drawing. The Sky Knight made silent movement, no sign of exhaustion upon him, the thrum of adrenaline still clinging to rapid controlled motion. Who knew if the blade within his hand would clash against the other for foul intent revealed by time. Eyes were witness, drinking in the details as taloned feet did power Montbank close. Blade returning to scabbard, a tremble indulged upon it from palm against the crossguard as flourish did crescent the metal, blood as shunned from it, returning home. The base of his feet quick treading as he made rapid to witness and draw closer.

In hope not to draw again, but in need ready to answer the wordless one should things turn improper.

The Sky Knight so grounded did wheel about, eyes drawing in what information was to hand. The look and feature of each. Montbank knew the silence within him and the warrior who outreached might inspire confusion and menace that might grow. His voice did rise from the throat, soft, assured, a matter of fact register that seemed not laboured for flight and descent, of sword that had ended. His own visage of white and blackened steel did contrast the free form splatter of blows sent true on the tower that did outreach to civilians. A careful blend of readiness and peace within Montbank, a guardian to what peace had been secured, watching what reaction was sparking in the eyes of the afeared and determined.

Montbank grew still. Hoping that the day was carried, and that his presence was a measure of calm. His voice did issue, soft as the wind that did gesture across the violence.

"Safety is here," Montbank said, a small ripple of the shoulder to imply that he would secure it if hazards did burgeon themselves to the fore from the warrior. His left hand did reach upon a belt, a myriad of satchels, many depleted of remedies medicinal. A bandage as fresh as his own shade of wing was clutched, bundled in exact form for compactness. A quick toss of such precious resource to Gregoryan.

"Make yourself less a visage, if you could," Montbank encouraged, as if he were instructing a messy eater to clean what crumbs did cling to beard.

A beat of time afforded, stillness to allow ragged breath and fear to blur away into trepidation in the faces that had seen such all too common a display of what lives in the hearts of men. His voice issued again, to attempt to soothe what fear that was affixed in soul of those that did not bear weapons for their meals to be earned.

"You're safe. Take a moment. Take a breath. Deep. That's it. All is settled."

Montbank gained a stillness, knowing that sudden movement in reactions still burning quick could encourage further surges of alarm. Another word, introduction, factual, calm and cool as boulder in rushing stream.

"I'm Syr Montbank. It's over. It's done. Are you injured?" Montbank asked, knowing that the warrior had the bandages to tend their bloody appearance and what wounds might have been endured if they had need. His question to the mother who was wrestling for what control might be gained from the child's panic. He knew that there were wounds forming in the mind that needed tending quickly. The world bore what cruelties in the page spoken bluntly aloud. He made what balanced word serve what calm could be encouraged, to provide words to give some civility to such a savage world displayed so recent and sudden in deed.

@Venla Thiel @Gregoryan A. Archambeau

 

[Venla Thiel]

Venla looked at the knight’s outstretched hand. Her jaw was tight. It hovered between them like a question she didn’t know how to answer. Blood dripped from the curve of the knuckles of his gauntlets. For a moment, her weight shifted back, and she tightened her grip on the sword once more before stepping forward. But not to meet his hand, but to place the blade back in it. Her hand, trembling slightly now that the rush of danger had begun to ebb, as she passed the blade back into his hand. The leather-wrapped hilt still warm from her grip.

When the owl-knight arrived, she didn’t hear him until he was nearly upon them. The shift of feathers, the soft tread of talons through blood-slick grass, none of it announced him. Only his voice did. Behind him, the groans of the dying groans filled the air.

"Safety is here."

Her eyes snapped up to him. Slowly, she nodded. “I’m not injured.” she said, though it felt like a lie. She didn’t bleed, but her chest ached, her heart was still thundering and her mind reeled. Her gaze flitted back to the trees where the girl had run. That girl was out there alone and scared to death. The fire popped, and something collapsed into the mud.

She glanced between the two knights, hesitated, then said, “Thank you. Both of you. If you hadn’t come when you did…” The words trailed off. She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Turning from the two knights, Venla stepped toward one of the surviving horses. The animal stood trembling near an overturned wagon, foam and blood flecking its bridle. Its flank shivering with each twitch of adrenaline.

She moved with care, slower than usual. Her fingers reached out gently to its muzzle. The horse snorted and tossed its head, but didn’t bolt. Not yet. “Easy.” she murmured, dragging her hand down its neck. She reached the reins and grabbed them. The horse flicked its ears.

“The girl. I don’t know her name.” Venla exhaled hard through her nose. “I’m going to try to find her.” she said. Venla turned the horse carefully, leading it by the bridle toward the woods.