[Quest] Taking Back Eventide

by **Chevalier** on December 2nd, 2012, 4:00 am

"Oof, what a blighted mess!" the man stated, both embarassed at his dismounted state as well as the overall chaos of the fight. Reaching upward, he quickly grabbed a hold of the limb stretched out for his aid and yanked himself up to his feet. A rather unassuming man, Human most likely by the build, although telling specific races considering all of the armor was a chore. Having lost his lance a while back, the man dipped his opposite hand toward his rather plain yet very functional sheath and removed a long curved saber from its confines.

Balancing the blade carefully in his hand, the man's experience with a sword on foot was sorely lacking compared to his precision with a lance or spear on horseback, but still he engaged the Yukman staring him down as best he could, spurred on by watching Rothyr's success. With a few well timed feints it appeared like the man was about to land a crippling blow across the creature's torso, only to have yet another Yukman come barreling out of no where, slamming into him with such force that the Syliran spun in a full circle as the creature's arms sunk deeply into his sides, looking to tackle him to the ground. The long claws of the Yukman sought to breach the gaps where his cuirass latched, moving past the gambeson and into the skin, fueled by the supernatural strength the creature's possess in their grip and bite force.

"Gaaagh!" the Knight howled as he attempted to shove the creature away, though the grip was incredibly well maintained. It didn't look good, and there was quite the potential that Rothyr would have to become involved once more, even while he was forced to deal with the third Yukman still alive from before. That was until a series of meaty thunks rang through the air. Almost like a wizards magic, a throwing dagger appeared in the creature's back, then another, then another. Forced to release it's captive in order to determine the source of the pain, it spun about, only to have it's leg removed from below the knee. An arm quickly followed suit, the speed and impact of it's severing causing it to spiral through the air. These vicious wounds also appeared to be generated...with a throwing dagger. Even before the thing could hit the ground to bleed to death, a final flash of steel soared through the air, cleaving the top portion of it's skull off. Like a filleted piece of fish, the dismembered Yukman finally crashed to the ground unmoving.

If Rothyr finished the Yukman before him quick enough, he could get a good look at the Knight whom had lent his own hand toward the unlucky saber wielder. The Knight was tall, clearly around six and a half feet tall, and appeared to be almost sickly thin, almost half as wide as the Windborne horseman. Two enormous bandoleers hung across the Knight's chest, quite literally packed with his only weapon of choice, throwing daggers.

"Scarecrow..." the injured Knight panted, still clutching his side as fresh blood oozed out from between the plates of his armor slowly.

"You boysh shure gotsh up 'an way from the resht." the Knight, Ser Carter, otherwise known as "Scarecrow" had a distinctive slur, although it was common knowledge he never touched a drink.

Looking around it appeared the two regiments had met in the middle of the Yukman conflict, a significant victory for Syliras. The reclaimation of the Outpost was clearly in sight now. That was until heavy rains started to fall across the field of battle. A disgruntled Ser Carter looked up at the sky, verbalizing his displeasure, "Canna keep a man nishce and dry?!"

Within moments puddles began to swell around the muddy ground, with several Knights looking to finish off the last of their opponents. Scarecrow, Rothyr, and the saber wielder had different issues, however. "What's thish!?" Carter shouted, suddenly feeling something gripping his ankle. Without even appearing like he had moved to grip a dagger his hand shot toward the ground, firing one of his throwing weapons into the mud with an unimpressive splash. Almost as if he had angered the very ground below he was sent soaring through the air like a ragdoll, coming to a rolling stop nearly fifteen meters away. Rothyr and his companion watched on as a thing from the very ground rose upward, made of muck and vegetation. The plants coiled tightly, forming the muscles of this multi-limbed thing. The squat body constructed itself in a matter of moments, a long tail shooting out from the back of the body, while a pointed hawk-like beak appeared to be the 'maw' of the beast. Though it stood no taller than a man, the width of the body appeared to be thrice as wide.

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by **Rothyr Windbourne** on December 5th, 2012, 12:50 am

“Aye, that escalated quickly, ha!” Rothyr said, “Where do we stand, are we winning? It's hard to tell, friend.” He asked his question as the man drew his saber, and took a moment to look at it. He had seen some blades, as few horsemen amongst the Drykas carried swords outside of the Diamond clan, this one had a curve to it. He had seen similar weapons amongst the riders from Eyktol, but didn't know similar weapons might be wielded further north. He favored a straight-blade over a curved weapon, himself, but whatever worked was better than nothing.

He had barely got the question out before the man was in the fray again, and he remembered that he still had a foe to fight. At least the beast was punctual, letting the men finish their 'conversation' before attacking. The beast swung high, to bury its weapon in Rothyr's head, or cave in his helm, and he just managed to raise his weapons in time. He caught the brunt of the force on his forearms as he crossed his hands to catch the weapon. He felt the strain on his muscles and bones, and his fingers went numb for the force and he knew he would feel that on the morning, if he lived to see the end of the day. He quietly wondered to himself how many bones he had broken that day.

Around him the battle raged on, and he thought his doom may approach. The knight he had helped had gone down again, overwhelmed by the numbers that bore down on them. He barely knew the man, no more than a few words they had shared, but sometimes, in the heat of battle those few words are enough to forge a bond of brotherhood through blood. Rothyr hoped, had he been in a situation similar to the knight's, the knight would help him and save his life. Maybe the next battle he joins, he will help another unfortunate rider, for that is how to survive in dismal situations. He had to help him again, and maybe they could fight their way out. Rothyr had to fight back.

The beast pressed on, howling for the Drykasman's blood. The yukman stepped too far, and Rothyr saw his way to turn the tide. He lifted his foot, kicked the knee of the Yukman, and pushed down with all the force he could muster. With an audible snap, the creature's leg popped out of socket at the knee, and he went down with gutteral cries of pain. Rothyr then fell on the beast, hacking and hacking again at the neck until the head flopped halfway off its' torso, and hung limply sideways off the body. The blood spray covered Rothyr's face and arm, and drenched his armor. His white tabard was now red, and he hardly looked like a Syliran soldier anymore, but a red-soaked demon come to purge the Yukmen at Eventide. He hoped the intimidation factor might make things easier, if that were the case. As the saying goes, hunger makes the best spice, so survival makes the best fighter.

Rothyr looked up, to see if his friend was still amongst the living after his adversary had stopped moving. What he witnessed he barely believed. Severing limbs was no mystery to him, but to do so with throwing daggers... That was something else. He remained perched above the creature he sent to the web, still gripping the fur where he had held the beast in place while he hacked away at it. Half-standing as he watched the spectacle, he let go to rejoin the knights, the limp body of the yukman thudding against the ground lifelessly.

He heard the injured knight call the man 'Scarecrow,' and wondered how one would get such a nickname. Perhaps it was because he was thin? That would be a mystery perhaps solved later, there was yet a job to do. While there was a moment of peace and clarity in a scene of blood, chaos, and murder, a shared word might make the going a little easier.

"Heard the view from Eventide was pretty nice, so figured I'd ride ahead to get the best spot!" Rothyr said, with a laugh, "Lucky you came along when you did, I don't think I'd have made it to save our friend in time. Thank you."

Rothyr let loose a sigh of relief with the coming of the rain. The cool water soothed his aching muscles, tired with the day's killing. Also, because the battle seemed near at an end, around him the last of the yukmen were being put to the sword, and this pleased him because his opponents were long since put down. He hung his axe in his belt, and sheathed his knife to remove his helmet, and let the water cool him off.

He held it under his arm, laughing at Scarecrow's comment, “Feels good, I think, very welcome after such an endeavor.”

He closed his eyes, and let the water wash away the blood on his face. His armor was beginning to look clean again, as the filth, muck, and gore was rinsed from him. He only opened his eyes when he heard Scarecrow say, 'What's this?', at least that's what he thinks he said, for the slur. Rothyr looked over, and watched the being fling Scarecrow so far away. He watched, in slight disbelief as the creature came into being, never having seen anything close to this even in his worse nightmares. This being of mud, and vine, plant and muck, this horrific vision from a mad gardener. He knew vaguely of Yukmen, they appeared in Cyphrus at times, and he had seen the bodies left by scouting parties amongst his people. This, however, he had never seen before. He heard tales of why to stay away from the swamps, that the vines themselves might rise to claim you. But this was not a swamp. He discovered that day on the fields of Eventide, that this is what would have claimed him had he not heeded the warnings.

Often times, when he regrets leaving home, it's because of simple matters. Beautiful women causing him grief, for one, and the troubles of bandits, and slavers on the roads, being another. This creature, this mad creation, brought on a whole new kind of dread. Rothyr, however, damned his knack for running towards insane danger rather than away from it, as he rushed forwards towards it. He looked around for a spear, for the best way to battle large animals is from range, and half-cursed himself for sending Windlass away, for that is where his bow and arrows were.

And right now, he wished he had them.

by **Chevalier** on December 21st, 2012, 7:36 am

"Oh shyke." the saber wielder grunted, his instincts causing him to step a few paces away from the creature, even though years of intense Knightly drilling had taught him to engage a threat. Though his sword was sharp and he yet had strength in him to fight, something about this creature didn't appear easily dispatched with a sword alone. A single man against such a potent Landspawn wouldn't have been a match, and it was that reason that organizations like the Syliran Knights were born. To be able to battle superior opponents filled with divine powers and Djed with only skill and steel took a third most important element, teamwork.

Rothyr had only to look around in order to find a plethora of weaponry at his disposal. A large amount of javelins, spears, and lances had been used, thrown, or discarded during the enormous melee. The sabre wielder himself had a crossbow, and slipping his sword into its sheath, such a ranged weapon was just the implement he was going for.

"Rassha fraasha..." Scarecrow cursed as he rolled back to his feet, stumbling on his feet for just a moment before he found his balance. Eyes focusing on the creature in front of him he grunted and spat a huge wad of muck onto the ground that had settled in the back of his throat after his forceful bodily skip across the ground. Pulling weapons off from his bandoleers, he began to toss throwing daggers as fast as he could, his feet pounding across the mudholes in order to close the distance and increase the kinetic energy of such thrown weapons. The bladed knives whistled through the air as they flashed past Rothyr and the Knight loading up his crossbow, slicing into the creature with much less effect than had been seen against something of flesh and bone.

Even the Knight wielding the crossbow fired a bolt that landed with a wet thunk, but still the creature did not appear dismayed by this offensive. In fact, the already injured Knight had to abandon his crossbow and roll backward to keep from being grappled by the sudden lengthening of one of the creature's limbs. "Captain!" he called out, scrambling to his feet, "We've got a problem over here!" His call created a chain reaction of various calls, inspiring men to climb back upon their horses and start toward the trio in order to aid them.

Rothyr would have to think fast, however. Almost like a crocadile lunging from a riverbed, the creature moved quickly on its stump-like legs, charging for him. Two long, tendril like arms lashed out, looking to grab a hold of the Drykas' body. The man could defend as best he could, he had the tools. Now it was a matter of surviving so that the literal 'cavalry' could arrive and assist with this strange monstrous appearance.

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by **Rothyr Windbourne** on December 22nd, 2012, 8:07 am

He sheathed his weapons, his knife and axe, spotting a heavy-looking lance laying near a fallen friend. He'd need both hands to lift it, likely it was carved from an entire tree. He put his main hand on the handle, and held the rest steady with his left. He likely looked foolish, for the lance was longer than he was tall, and very thick. This was a weapon for breaking heavy ranks of infantry. This was a weapon that pinned lines of foes to the ground, and pinning a foe to the ground seemed the most logical thing at that point in time. His helmet flew off his head, better he thought for him to breath as his tired, aching muscles hauled this massive timber to his enemy. The strap must have come undone, but faulty strapwork was the last thing on his mind as he raced forward, kicking up mud and muck, bloody water and filth with each step onward. The bottom of his tabard was muddy and black, the rest was white flecked with pink smears of blood, and the armor, Syliran metal he had never worn before, no longer seemed to bother him. The adrenaline raced and raged through his blood, the fury pumped through his heart, and the world slowed down as it had when the Glassbeak came for his throat in the Sea of Grass where he hunted with his father and the Akalaks. He did not control the event, so much as it just simply happened. Fortune found him again, that day, despite all odds.

To aim low was to be carried backwards by his foe. To aim too high was to likely miss. To charge head on was stupid altogether, but if he could just get it off balance... He might be able to pin it down. Then, a more effective way of dealing with such a beast might be found! It was all up to fate, or else he would return to the web, and perhaps have better luck next time. Or, at least, the good sense not to be so foolish again. Alas, here he was, already gone through the trouble of lifting such a heavy lance and charging such a beast that need not be charged, let alone dealt with without such things as fire or horse... Wait a minute!

He ran, set his foot, and thrust forward. He caught the beast right under, where on a typical human would be, under the sternum. The beast raged forward onto the lance, which caught and tore some vines as it protruded from the back. Rothyr was pushed back by the landspawn before him, and lost his footing. He slipped in the muck and the beast came down upon him. He held the lance in place best he could, batting away the tendrils that came for him. Those seemed but a distraction, for when he looked up, he saw hell came for him with a bestial roar none should hear before meeting their demise. The beast had opened its mouth and came to feast on the Drykasman far from home, seemingly content in its first catch of the day.

“Shyyyyykkkkeeee!!!” He yelled, wide-eyed, no doubt seeing his life flashing before his eyes. Out of reflex, he grabbed his knife to stab randomly, frantically, and finally found the beasts' eye. Seeing his chance, he stepped up, regaining his footing, and pushed forward on the lance.

“To it, you petchers!” The Drykas yelled to his comrades, “Let's see how tough he is on his back!”

He pushed, and pushed, all he could till his arms felt they could lift no more, and thought he must have failed and be dead for the weight grew lighter, ever lighter. He closed his eyes and roared, pushing hard as he could again, and something gave way. He opened his eyes and saw the world upside down, and many men had grasped the lance and pushed with him, and the beast was finally toppled!

Also, he found, he had been catapulted by the beast going down, and the momentum had thrown him over to its far side. The ground was soft with rainfall and mud, so he did not appear to be injured, and rolled over on to his stomach to fully grasp the scene. The beast was on its' back, waving this way and that with long tendrils, tossing soldiers about to whom hacking it to death seemed to be the only way to kill it. Not to say that wouldn't be possible, but not with out great loss of life.

'Think, Roth, think!' He racked his brain, caught in a shiver from being so wet so long. A fire would be nice.... Fire!

“Set the petcher ablaze!” Rothyr yelled, cupping his mouth, “Bring fire! Set 'im on fire!”

by **Chevalier** on February 7th, 2013, 1:03 am

In the distance the sound of hooves thundering across the landscape could be heard. In the immediate vicinity, the creature battled for it's existence with 'creatures' that had invaded it's newest home. Various Knights tried to keep the monster at bay, hearing various cries of battle from off in the distance. It appeared this creature was not the only one of its kind. Others much like it had begun rising up from the muck and grass, small contingents of Knights breaking off in an attempt to deal with them.

The one closest to Rothyr slowly made itself stand, the squat body it possessed providing a low center of gravity. Even as it prepared for a secondary assault, a large barrage of arrows plowed into it's chest. While normally a single crossbow bolt could be shrugged off without much thought, a dozen arrows striking their target at once seemed to have some effect. Rothyr spoke of fire, and those around him agreed, but could they keep the flames in the rain? "Fire?! Can we make fire?!" a few called out, although there were no Warrior Mages in attendance, and thus the fire would have to be mundane. Or would it?

"I have some of the fire of Ivak...but..." a Squire had mentioned.

"But nothing, hand it over!" one of the Knights demanded. Although the boy spoke of it being utilized for a project which was to impress his alchemically edified Patron, the overwhelming majority sought to use it for a more impressive test in the name of science.

"We'll be sure to let 'im know how well it works boy!" the Knight moved quick in relieving the boy of the few flasks he had, dispensing them to the horsemen which were not yet engaged. Off they rode to the various parts of the battlefield, flasks flying once they were close enough. True to the boy's word, it seemed he did indeed possess the rare Ivak's fire, as the brilliant flames burst into being the moment the flasks shattered against the vine covered hides of the beasts. Bits and pieces of charred, ember producing vegetation fell away from the creatures as they seemingly turned into husks. All except for the one nearest Rothyr.

Just as the cavalryman tossed the flask, the tendril-wielding beast sought to bat the flask out of the air. It was the lance Rothyr had jammed deeply into the thing that stopped it, the tendrils becoming tangled upon the long length of shaft buried deeply through the plant-beasts core. Even as it looked like the flask might lack the force to shatter from the impact, Scarecrow hurled a dagger with surgical precision through the air, cleaving through the thick glass vial, and releasing the contents in order to cause the appropriate combustion.

Much like it's brethren, weakness befell the thing as it stumbled back, flames spreading across it's body despite the rain. A few men with no fear for their own well being hacked at it for the last time, pulling off huge bits of it's body in the process until it collapsed lifelessly to the ground leaving only it's seed heart behind, the last tie it possessed to this world.

The Drykas could feel a hand on his shoulder, shaking him vigorously, "Ha! The Eventide belongs to the Knights once more! It was the saber wielding man from before, luckily still in one piece. The Djed storms had their way with the outpost, changing it's shoreline forever, but finally the rebuilding process could begin, thanks to the efforts of a few brave men and women of the Syliran Knights.

Rothyr

LORE

Fire Against Vinumia
Ivak's Fire Stays Lit

EXPERIENCE

Skill	XP Earned
Hand Axe	1
Short Bow	1
Riding	2
Spear	2
Observation	2
Tactics	1

Storyteller Notes

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