Grass, Blood, and New Beginnings.[Merenwen, Ronan Windsong]

by **Merenwen** on July 14th, 2011, 11:44 pm

Merenwen gave Matthial a long solid stare to convey that she understood. She had no idea what this signal would be, but hopefully if she watched him carefully, she would be able to pick it out.

She stood up and stretched, letting her firm muscles tense and relax. Her dinner catch hadn't been a difficult one to manage at all, but this... This that was about to take place would surely test her endurance and mentality.

She had never bitten anything other than her food. There was never a need to. While she had often been involved in some sort of confrontation, there was never a need to downright bite someone. She knew she had powerful bone-crushing bite, and she knew she could cripple someone if she wanted to.

It was then that she felt herself go into hunt-mode, or what she had always described as a certain bloodlust. She was thinking of every little thing that had ever made her mad, and adding it to her drive. She would succeed.

by **Ronan** on July 15th, 2011, 6:59 am

Ronan nodded at the plan - for once, Matthial seemed to be talking sense.

"Then that's what I'll do."

He turned to Merenwen, sitting and listening keenly. She was less fidgety than earlier - perhaps becoming more aware of the task at hand. A seriousness had come over Matthial too - his usual dry humour dwindling in the moment.

"And you be careful," he said to Matthial, "like I said - there's something here. Something unexpected. Even if you don't listen to me, just be vigilant. Please." He pleaded, hoping something would go into the swordsman's head. He wasn't saying it to be funny, or to joke around. Something was seriously off.

"I will more than likely see you at the gully then," Ronan began, "if all goes well. Good fortune to you both." And then he moved off, keeping to the shadows, and crouching where the tall grass permitted.

He was off to start a fire.

by **Matthial** on July 15th, 2011, 3:41 pm

The swordsman picked out a spot between the caravan and the plateau, and quickly motioned for Merenwen to follow. It was hard to see the slaves in the dark, but as he walked by he noticed a group off from the rest. Maybe three children bound by rope. He vaguely remembered that slavers didn't like putting chains on children, as potential buyers looked down on markings on the young ones.

Still stalking through the tall grasses, the man paused as he entered the mid-point between the two areas. He looked back and found Merenwen was still there, and then he crouched down and whispered.

"I'm going to hit my shield with my sword. When that happens you bite the rear guard. That should get them after you. Then meet me at the gully. Good luck."

Then Matthial blinked at the Kelvic. It had suddenly occured to him that he hadn't the foggiest idea what she actually was. Some sort of feline he supposed.

He didn't know why, but he had the strangest desire to pet her. He restrained himself, and waited for Ronan's part of the plan to take effect.

by **Merenwen** on July 16th, 2011, 5:17 am

Merenwen followed Matthial as quickly and as quietly as possible, keeping herself low. Her thick padded paws allowed for easy, furtive movement. Not a creature would hear her coming when it came her time to land the blow.

As Matthial instructed her, she peeked through the grass, listening, but focusing on her surroundings. His voice came in a hushed whisper. He informed her of her target, the rear guard, and of the signal to spring from her hiding place. To acknowledge her understanding, she nuzzled him lightly, as she had Ronan.

She surveyed Matthial's face as he blinked down at her. There was not a trace of fear hiding on his face. She could tell he was apprehensive. The three of them were, certainly Ronan. She wondered if he really took into account what the troubled Ronan confessed about his divination. There was a pure look of raw fear on Ronan's face as he told them of the looming evil that awaited them.

A most curious look crossed Matthial's face, also. A strange one that she couldn't quite read, though she suspected he was inspecting her form: the form of a powerful feline waiting to pursue her target. This would surely be a learning experiences for the three of them.

With a head-butt to Matthial's leg (one that she intended to mean "Good luck to you, too"), she crept into the grass, senses flaring. The smell of blood, sweat, and tears. The crackle of the flaming torches. The sound of men speaking. This would all soon come to an immense jumble, utter chaos, when their plot came into play. She circled near the guards, being careful not to alert them to her presence.

by **Ronan** on July 16th, 2011, 10:35 am

Ronan spent the most part crawling along his knees, thankful for the grass's height. As he came closer to the camp, his heart began to jump around in his chest. There weren't too many people milling around, some had left for their walk, others had gone on guard nearer the caravan's themselves. Ronan himself was aiming for the small cluster of tents.

He had flint in his bag, and he had also shoved a clump of dry grass into his bag too. Rubbing one with the other was short to create sparks. Do it in the tent... and there would be chaos. He was still apprehensiveness however. That looming darkness hadn't gone away.

He rounded on the camp, ducking and lying very still whenever anyone moved near him. Thus far, he had not been noticed. His thoughts went to Matthial and Merenwen. He wondered how their half of the plan was going.

Ronan's eyes flitted to the nearest tent, and he tried to make out any shadows or figures moving about inside. He couldn't see anything. It seemed nobody was home, and that was ideal for him. He keened around, gazing like a hawk, and then burst into a crouched rush towards the tent.

Within moments he was in.

Within moments his eyes widened, his jaw bulged, and the horror inside began to grow.

by **Matthial** on July 16th, 2011, 8:19 pm

Matthial squinted through the darkness. He was obviously waiting for the fire and smoke to attract the guards. Seeing nothing yet, he blinked as Merenwen head-butted his leg.

"Oh really?"

Yet she was already gone. Off into the night to do bad things to bad people. Hopefully she would wait on his signal.

Peering about he waited for Ronan to do his thing.

by **Merenwen** on July 17th, 2011, 2:36 pm

There was an undeniable spirit about Merenwen as she tracked through the grasses, stalking the encampment as she would her prey. She readied herself in her position, careful not to give her whereabouts away. Quietly, she lowered herself to the ground, nursing the dirt with her claws. Her ears stood straight up, listening for her signal.

by **Ronan** on July 17th, 2011, 5:06 pm

Ronan faltered. Firstly, there was the stench. And it was unmistakebly reminiscent of dead things. Secondly, there was the body lying in front of him, and the black dagger in the dead figure's chest. An assassin's dagger no less.

By the God's! Did I not warn Matthial!?

His heart thundered - he had to get the fire going or the whole plan would falter. But this... he had known something darker had been occurring. These weren't just slavers, that was for sure.

He didn't really have time to think about things. He stifled a retch, then grabbed the body and dragged it from the tent, leaving it at least ten metres away in the grass. Then he headed back in, striking flint on dry grass.

The effect was immediate. A whoosh of flame erupted from the grass, and he chucked it around, the tent catching immediately. For a moment, he stood paralysed, flame washing over his glazed eyes. And then he shook his head, rushing from the tent. As he fled, the body was there to confront him. And the awful truth began to sink in, that this wasn't just a body. This had been a real, living person - and Ronan had uncovered some kind of assassination plot. Or perhaps even worse. Whatever the case, these merchants weren't who they said they were.

They were monsters.

OOCHey guys, I'm so sorry but I'm now away for 5 days without internet

Feel free to continue without me for a while - while Ronan makes his way back to the gully with the body. I'll be back on Saturday next week, and I'll catch up immediately. Sorry again!

by **Matthial** on July 20th, 2011, 4:24 pm

Matthial held out a gloved hand, watching the tiny rain drops kissing the metal covering his palm. He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know why he had foolishly dragged two others down into his sordid story of redemption.

It was in the moment of this thought that he looked up at the sounds of yelling. The grasses around him gave no clues, but the rising smoke to the west told him all he needed to know. The fire had been lit, and the signal was given. Hunkering down the swordsman readied himself for the line of slaves. Peeking through the grasses he could make out the caravan leader yelling and waving a torch. The guards gathered up the unfortunate souls, and lined them up. They where moving in a matter of moments, marching as fast as possible straight for their camp, and him.

Matthial didn't know why he looked back. Maybe he was looking for Merenwen, maybe he was just looking for a change of view, whatever the reason, it saved his life. Instinct took ahold of his body as he lurched forward and to the left, avoiding the axe blow.

Reeling back, the swordsman rose into a full stance, shield at the ready. Matthial realized with growing horror that he hadn't accounted for the main-camp guards. He had foolishly assumed they would be busy with the fire. In his arrogance he had never thought that the camp would send someone to the slaves. Cursing himself for a fool, Matthial dodged a blow and then parried another. His opponent was fast, faster then any other Matthial had gone up against. The man wielded his axe like a scythe swinging wildly and with such fervor that it was hard to follow. Matthial back-pedaled trying to throw his shield arm out and block the flurry. Constantly on the defensive Matthial started to notice his opponent slow, and gradually time his strikes with precision as opposed to wild abandon. He was getting tired. Matthial saw an opening, and slammed his shield into the man's oncoming axe, causing a loud clang as metal met metal. He drove his longsword forward like a spear aimed at the man's abdomen. It was only as his elbow straightened that he saw the fist slide under his defenses. In the next instance he felt rather then saw the massive fist collide with his jaw. His sword hand drooped as he caught himself and tried to stave off the glittering lights around him. The blade touched dirt as his shield came up. His shield arm shook as blow after blow found its way onto the metal.

He had been tricked.

The glittering lights seemed to shine as his shield flew from his arm. The limb buckling under the other man's repeated strikes. Still reeling, and trying to catch his breath, the swordsman threw his free arm out in an attempt to balance himself. His opponent moved closer, not so much swinging as chopping vertically in an attempt at hitting Matthial where his shoulder and neck met.

The wanderer swung his sword wildly, trying desperately to get some distance between himself and his attacker. His breath caught as he realized he was looking at the grasses around him. At the drizzling rain, at the war-axe swinging inches from his face, kept at bay by his own blade. In his minds-eye he could see and hear old master Horrad.

"You are not losing because you are ugly. You are not losing because you are short. You arn't even losing because your brother is better then you. You are losing, because you have lost energy. Energy is everything. I have taught you about the dance of death. I have shown you, and repeatedly told you about the energy states of you and your opponent. Yet you will not listen. You refuse to learn this simple principle. So let me show you now."

Matthial found it amusing. Here he was on the brink of death, fighting a losing battle. His sword arm had become lead, and his legs mud. The fight was almost over, and here he was thinking of his old teacher. The retired knight wasn't known for his bedside manner.

"You see how I effortlessly wear you down? How I break into your defenses? You can barely hold that sword boy! Why is that? Why will you find this blade in your chest? Let me tell you. Because you have lost. Everything I taught you about parrying and defense is utterly worthless in the face of combined assault. Let me say that in clearer terms so even an imbecile like you can understand. There is no defense. You do not block, and you do not parry in a sword fight. You go into a defensive posture, and try to regain energy so that you can attack again. You must always be on the attack, you must ALWAYS be on the attack. To defend is to die."

His master's lecture fresh in his mind, the young man found himself looking at a peculiar scene. Two figures fought under a night sky. Rain fell about them as they proceeded to dance. The first man was dressed in leather and wielded a large steel war-axe. Holding it in a two-handed stance, he swung wildly at his shorter opponent. The second figure tried to catch each blow with his sword, or at least dodge the axe blade. From the outside it was clear to see the battle was over. The other man had the advantage or 'energy'. He was on the attack and forcing the chainmailed-figure back, wearing him down and not allowing a single strike to be made. Then, something happened. Something that Matthial's enemy did not expect. Matthial ducked to the left of the axe, and swung in a sweeping motion to his right away from his body. At the same time, a single leg dragged a few inches behind him. The shorter man leaned back with his swing, and watched as the axe inevitably arced towards his side. It was a practiced maneuver, something that had served the nomad well in his travels. The free foot suddenly lashed out in a horrific kick aimed at the other man's stomach. The momentum of his opponents' swing pushed him into the foot, and then.. the other man keeled over the wind clearly knocked out of him.

Matthial's body screamed with each movement, his battered muscles quivering under the strain. It was all he could do to grip his sword in both hands at his side. He knew he couldn't pause, couldn't rest for even a second. Panting heavily, his lungs tried to get some oxygen as he began to blink rapidly. His opponent's adrenaline helped him bring his axe up to his chest as he started to back up, but it was already too late. Matthial lunged forth, both arms pushing the blade with force.

The old long-sword's tip arced under the axe shaft, and dug into leather, and then flesh. He tried to grasp the blade with a free hand as Matthial dug the blade deeper, and deeper into his chest. With the hilt fast approaching the chest, Matthial looked into his opponent's eyes. It was something he recognized. The emptiness of a mind going blank. His old master called it the 'deafening of the mind' a defensive measure when the body was overwhelmed. Much like it had been for him a few moments ago.

Blood began to seep from the man's mouth as the axe dropped to the soil. The body went limp, falling back, and tearing the sword from Matthial's grasp.

Now keeling over himself, Matthial shook like a dog, panting, quivering, and trying to stay in one piece. His thoughts where scattered. He wasn't sure if he should brush the strands of matted hair out of his face. Should he get his sword? Perhaps just run?

He studied his opponent. A large man in his early thirties, he wore his leather chest piece like a trophy, slung over the body in such a way that it offered protection, but looked haphazard. The clothes where torn and ripped from long-days travel.

Regaining his composure, Matthial took a tentative step towards his dying opponent. He placed a foot besides the man, and paused to study the axe. It was ornate, and beautiful. A golden hue touched the blade. Tribal etchings covering both sides and a distinct red liquid touched one end.

Blinking, Matthial looked at his shield arm, noting the hard dent in the chain-mail. A mailed-hand touched his shoulder, and Matthial felt liquid. It was hard to tell if it was the rain or not, but as he probed, the swordsman felt a fire.

Letting his hands drop, Matthial placed both hands on the hilt of his sword, and in one strong motion tore it from the still corpse below him. Blood dripped from the blade as he turned away, looking around for his shield. The sounds of combat had been loud. Hopefully Merenwen was biting someone.

Hopefully she hasn't seen what kind of monster you are.

Panting, the swordsman moved into the grasses, intending to cut off the line of slaves.

by **Merenwen** on July 20th, 2011, 5:29 pm

The whoosh of flames flooded in Merenwen's ears, making them stand upright. She froze on the spot, knowing her time to attack was near. She kept low to the ground, soft growls eliciting from deep within her chest and throat. Carefully, she inched up, peeking through the grasses towards the flaming tent, then to the encampment of men, beginning to panic. She crouched back low, and crept along slowly.

The plan appeared to be faltering as the men scattered. One man, with an axe ran straight past her, too close for comfort. Feral sounds of men battering one another filled the night air. And then, the signal. The clang of metal on metal, like thunder, rang through the vicinity.

Merenwen was unsure of where to go, or who to bite, now that everyone was scurrying about searching for the attackers. She released a loud, terrifying yowl from her throat, and leapt through the grass towards the nearest guard. With a powerful kick of her hind legs, she left the ground, springing above the grass. Her massive paws caught a man by the shoulders, and took him over backwards to the ground. The bloodlust filled her every muscle as she clamped her mighty jaws onto his face and shook her head. She quickly released and left him to tend to now mangled face.

To injure, not necessarily to kill, was her goal. Injure anyone she could and leave them too weak to fight was her goal. She ran through the grasses, darting to next man. Again, she pounced, catching his hamstring with her fangs. With a yelp, the man jerked his leg away, just as the reaction to draw ones hand from a hot substance. She felt his flesh tear from her teeth as she took a step back away from him. Quickly, he turned and kicked her hard in the face with his uninjured leg.

A hiss escaped Merenwen as she readied herself to pounce on him. She watched as he began to draw his sword, and she left the ground, digging her claws into his stomach. He swung his hands at her, pummeling her head and back like a flailing child. With another growl, she bit into his arm. He screamed out in pain, and drew his knee between them, kicking her off.

As she rolled across the ground, she caught her footing and circled back, making her way back towards Matthial. She felt the thick, sticky presence of blood seeping down her jaw as she ran faster than she ever had before. She knew he had been attacked, and now that everyone was scrambling, and he was without the boy, they would possibly have to charge together.

Along the way, she came up to another man, and ambushed him from behind. She ran into him, and knocked him over in a feeble attempt to buy them some time. She felt heat swelling through her limbs, exhausted from the rush. He head was pounding in pain from the kick she sustained

Merenwen nearly mistook Matthial for another guard. She silenced her growing feline roar, and in a flash of light that she hoped wouldn't give their position entirely away, she transformed. Blood covered her face. What wasn't from the adversaries, was her own. The tender throb of a busted lip and nose made her face feel as though it was pulsating.

There he stood, ripping his sword from a man's corpse. His eyes were fixated on the line of slaves. With a firm grip, she grabbed his wrist.

She looked at him, eyes dilated with fear, and said, "We go together."