Date: September 9, 2000 (Aether: January 25, 3907)
Place: The Rialto - Haven
Cast: Artin, Axel, Caioma, Caleb, Cyrene, Drusus, Fabien, Hafeez, Izak, Jenner, Kallisto, Katya, Keegan, Kitianta, Leif, Liolya, Maat, Morning-Mist, Niamh, Niherlas, Okalani, Riva, Sebastienne, Seif, Sumai, Starsong, Sven, Theron, Thorvald, Vladimir
Scene: The invaders fight their way into the Rialto, where they are eventually outnumbered and overwhelmed by the magic of their enemies. They're not about to surrender willingly, though, and peace must be negotiated when one of them captures the Emperor, Drusus Marcus Jove.
Note: All words in red indicate those spoken in the Aesir language.

Announcement: Word passes quickly through the city, messengers coming in all forms to homes and shops, bars and embassies, spreading the word of strangers landing on the beach and tearing into the Havenites with weapons drawn. The battle seems to rage on, but now, frightened shopkeepers dive beneath their stalls or down sidestreets as the strange invaders -- the winged Aesir and the water-dwelling Najada -- head toward the Rialto and the glimmering tower of Delphi!

Maat follows the rush of warriors, both for and against Haven as if she were a twig floating along a stream. She is caught, as it were, in the rush.

"Fire by volley!" comes the command. There's a great song and the first volley of crossbow bolts goes down, picked up by the wind behind them and turned into hideous darts that plunge through the bodies of the invaders.

Or, at least, some of them. But then the wind changes and suddenly they are struck. There's a massive musical rattling sound, like glass breaking, and screams as the rooftop defenders are pierced by shards of ice. The wind tosses the mongrels about like children and three quarters of them fall off of the roof, suspended for a moment in the blast of air before they drop and crunch on the ground below. Five of the winged troops have their wings snapped backwards -- their bolts go awry, one into the back of a man in the first rank. Almost everyone's wings are pierced.

Drusus, high in the maelstrom, feels what little control he had wrested from him. He can feel the wind and how its control spirals back to two sources. Folding his wings about himself, he falls towards Liolya and Cyrene. No Schola accompany him -- his personal guard are down below, assisting the other Praetorian units who have fallen back to the Rialto and reformed their lines there.

Pulling himself free of the huge wave, after several long moments, Sumai takes deep gasping breathes and rises to his feet, soaked through his armor. "That didn't go as I planned. I hate that," his deep voice says with a veritable growl. When the attackers make haste towards the city's core, he gathers his own soldiers and follows at a quick trot, which is about the best men in heavy armor can manage normally.

Arriving near the tail end of the crew, Sumai's guardsmen begin to look for valid targets to beat to death. Any strange Empyreans, those with too much color, will be greeted with a harsh axe.

Dragging her wounded self forward to the Rialto as fast as she can, Caioma tries to keep the tattered remnants of her Hounds together with commands shouted across the crowds. What the Rialto will provide, though, is fresh reinforcements. Already, there are many more indigo- clad guardsmen coming forward towards the invaders.

The Rialto is in chaos, people too slowly becoming aware of the moving battle, mothers grabbing their children, running to the nearest doors, all of them screaming as they make a run towards safety.

Cyrene sets her sister and herself down on the roof of the smithy that is off to one side, the structure looking secure enough and tall enough to keep them safe while they continue their onslaught of wind and snow. Ebon eyes survey the scene impassively, but with no little satisfaction as the crossbow men are sent tumbling. The diving form of Drusus goes unseen for the moment, at least by Cyrene.

Maat moves quietly about the edges of the conflict, helping direct mothers and children to safety and away from the weapon-wielding chaos.

Rushing into the Rialto with haggard frenzy, Keegan's small group arrives with Aesir hot in pursuit. Moving into attack formation, they carve their way through two unlucky Aesir, and spin wildly outward, their blades reaching for more flesh.

Having done the job she intended and disabled the winged warriors atop the strange structures surrounding them, Liolya returns her focus to Delphi. A glance is spared towards her sister and then towards Delphi. A single webbed finger points and silent communication passes between the two. It is only as Drusus is almost upon them that she becomes aware of his approach, spinning to face him at the last moment.

The strangest thing he ever saw. Empyreans attacking Empyreans, Atlanteans doing the same, and then every man for himself. Hafeez is not about to get in the middle of it, keeping to the walls, where he will be able to see what is going on, without getting nicked himself. His dark face is only partially visible, the man keeping his hood and his cloak close about him.

Those Najada warriors, dark when they came out of the sea, now all blend in perfectly with the snow around them. Slashing and striking their way through the streets behind their leader, they fight relentlessly and efficiently, even if their usual formation has given way to a chaotic spreading behind Izak. A good number are already down, left behind on the streets, but no look back is wasted. No mercy for the dead is known, as the battle goes on.

With the silver-haired woman still close beside him, Izak methodically carves his way through the streets. Any who dare to approach him are efficiently taken down, though by now, he has not gone completely unscathed. The 'ousted' leader of the hive mind is covered with blood, and not all of it belongs to his victims. Progress is halted as one brave soul of the Korallion guard comes up against him.

More Praetorians arrive, and with them comes everyone, including the Imperator. It is unfortunate that his troops have been divided and at least a legion is up north keeping an eye on the Varati. Many of the soldiers seem to have trouble flying in this sort of weather and head for the ground as soon as possible, as the Velites rush in from the northeast.

If it is not Valholl, then it is the next best thing! The victims of the raid have been kind enough to bring the loot to one place and lay it out atop the tables for the Aesir to gather like flowers in spring. And at the foot of the tower they seek no less! Axel lashes out with his axe, hewing at anyone foolish enough to face him, and showing mercy to those who run in fear. What challenges will this next wave of defenders hold? What glory awaits? He knows not, but he laughs joyously as he rushes forward to discover those things.

The battle has raged through the streets of Delphi, and seems to have come again to a swirling halt in the Rialto, at the gates of the Citadel. Disentangled from the young winged... whatever he is... Jenner cautiously circles Sven. The Hound has picked up a trident from a fallen Atlantean, the weapon awkward but adding to the adult's already-longer reach.

Just as it had on the beach, the snows in the marketplace heave and roll over unsuspecting citizens, sweeping some away and burying others, if only temporarily. Vladimir glances around, briefly taking in the sights of the unusual city and marking where the enemy stands. The snow parts around his legs as he wades through, making his stride through the clogged streets much easier than most. He looks to his left and sees a Hound charging toward him, sword drawn. Snarling, he shifts the snows and catches the man in a whirlwind of the white substance, taking the Hound's feet out from under him.

Leif's grin turns to a scowl as the attack continues. Why don't they die already? Well, since the one with the bent sword seems to be the leader, he'll aim at him next... bringing the hammer down in a swift arc to shatter the arm that holds the weapon.

Entering in the Rialto and the carnage, Kitianta, only an Acolyte but of elemental magic, looks around the fray, and quickly makes her way to a small area of sanity, intending to work her magic on the Rialto, and help against the men.

His saber comes silently out of its scabbard, long and slender and curved and made for hacking downward. Drusus finds two soulmates for the cold thing that lurks at the heart of his soul in these two women: threat knows threat. The wind that surrounds him reaches out to seize them both. What they feel is not the rage of the storm: it is like being enveloped in that icy air and crushed. He is not nearly as powerful as either of them, but he has a will as inexorable as the sea.

The edge of the saber catches the light in a line of silver as Drusus slices at Liolya.

Oh, now this is beautiful. Morning-Mist stops as soon as she gets a decent view of the action and quickly finds a place to hide and view. Every time blood is spilled, she smiles and eagerly waits for more.

The multi-hued wings of the Aesir horde trail behind them, leaving blood and broken bodies. They overturn stables and some fall in the streets as the frenzied battle rushes toward the Rialto and builds to a crescendo. Weapons ring with the cries of the wounded and the victorious alike. Othin will collect his share of warriors this day. And reward as many more.

Maat moves to dig children trapped in the drifts of snow created by Vladimir. Thankfully, the chill air has resulted in heavily-bundled creatures. One by one, the children are freed, then directed to a side-street to escape the invaders.

Hammer meets arm in an audible crack, and Keegan's unfortunate extremity is bent into an impossible shape. Crying out with pain, his other arm swings wildly toward Leif's face, even as the kshatri soldier moves back to let his companions take the brunt of the assault. Another sword jabs at Leif's legs, while a third Varati slices the head off an attacking Aesir.

Caleb wipes more blood from his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, blinking as he tries to clear his vision. People are pushed aside with this staff, though some are Haven's citizens as well as the enemy. For now, anyone who gets close, is shoved away. Just trying to survive and do his job, this Mongrel works his away along, bashing and knocking out those he suspects to be the strangers that have caused such chaos. Unfortunately, for every other strike he makes, another cut or slash finds its away along his already-scarred flesh.

Sven growls out some oath at Jenner and hefts his axe, shifting it from hand to hand in a move that, in some warriors, might be a means of distraction. This boy, though, only looks nervous, and he stares at Jenner through narrowed, grey-green eyes, taking note of that lack of wings. Automatically, his gaze darts away from the mongrel for a split-second as he seeks out either Axel or Svala amid the crowd.

Meeting up with one of the other Commanders, Caioma quickly, briefly relays the gist of what happened on the beach. Shouting out to her men, she calls out, "REGROUP!"

The cavalry is here in the form of more Hounds who have yet to see battle. It looks as if the invaders are rushing towards Delphi, which means they might be able to surround them at the gates. Perhaps.

There! Jenner's strike isn't the clean jab a two-handed grip might give him, but he whips the trident in a vicious arc towards the briefly-distracted young Aesir, with Sven's arms as his target.

Cyrene turns her head sharply at the sudden pressure of air bearing down on them. Silver ribbons swirl about and are pushed back. Ebon eyes flare coldly, counterpart to the heat of battle seen in the faces of the Aesir. A cold that burns. She reaches out, as if to protect her sister, but her frail form can do nothing against the slashing blade, and her arm is retracted, bearing a deep gash of red within its paleness. No sound escapes her throat, but a telepathic cry of shock and anger are projected all around.

Inch by slow inch, Hafeez makes his way around the Rialto to that one street leading to Atesh-Gah. With his eyes glued to the scene, he is nearly on top of Morning-Mist before she comes in his view. Or perhaps it was just the snow clouding his vision. "You, one with fur," he finds time to mock, "Go home, or get some help, no place for women here!" It is only to her that he lifts the hood from before his face, glaring at her, before he hides himself in cloth again and makes as if to dash further along the wall, closer to where Sumai and his guards are standing.

Once the Korallion guard is down, there is little to stand in Izak's path to the Citadel. Eyes are cold and hard, lips are pressed in grim determination. Yet he has not forgotten the silver-haired Najada at his side. Without the capability for telepathy, he can only mutter an unintelligible growl at her. Using any means necessary, he continues towards the gates of Delphi.

Carried by the strong arms of a sturdy Mongrel warrior does Okalani make her entrance into the Rialto, the remains of the Korallion guards who accompanied her to the beach swarming around her in order to protect the one whose magic continues to interfere with the joined thoughts of those who must have been trained from youth to fight and think together as the Najada seem to do. The pale blue hue normally clinging to her features has been drained from her face, leaving strikingly pale features which accentuate the bright aquamarine eyes which glow with an almost unearthly light in the continuing rain of snow and ice gathered around. Briefly, do her thoughts reach out to the two upon the smith's roof, scanning their abilities.

Okay, so a man just came by and told her to leave then darted off. Well, it seems as if enforcement of that order is not forthcoming. But, since he found her, Morning-Mist finds a better hiding place a little further from the action.

Stunned at the sight of the strange Empyrean leaping down at her, Liolya does not react in time, and it's only her sister's intervention that prevents her from taking what could have been a killing blow. Seeing her sister's blood, she gives a shriek that sounds like a banshee's cry. The membranes of her wings are visible as they flash out uselessly in the air, but she gestures a hand forward, sending another violent spray of wind and ice directed at Drusus.

Keegan's sword hits its mark as the edge of the blade cuts at Leif's face, narrowly missing his ear. As it is, he'll now probably wear a scar for the rest of his life there. But the adrenaline still pounds through his blood and the pain is ignored... as it is, he is already bleeding from one leg, as well. The blood drips into his beard, some drops even getting into his mouth, but it only serves to spur him on. The hammer is swung wickedly, aiming at any extremity in his way... whether it be the one who attacked him or one of his bodyguards.

Pushing toward the gates, Axel kicks a table over toward two Hounds rushing him. He spins, letting the weight of his axe draw it outward to slice a third lengthwise from shoulder to waist. Eyes fall again upon Sven, whom he has kept within view. Eyes widen and he shouts to the youth, "Mind your opponent, or you'll feast in Valholl, Sven!" He makes his way toward the pair. No one's going to kill his thrall and survive it! Svala is likely still charging for the citadel of Delphi.

Amid such a battle, it's hard to tell enemy from friend. Fighting winged people next to dark-skinned landwalkers is wrong. Very wrong, and yet it takes only a few moments for the last of the Praetorians to adjust. Theron takes a portion of troops, and lands them in front of the Citadel, between Izak and the building.

Sven is caught off-guard for that split-second he'd looked away -- a second that could have cost him his life if Jenner's strike had intended to kill. The trident grazes across his arm and scores a deep rent in the fabric of his sark, from which blood wells up. The boy shrieks. "Aaaarrr! You cur! You whelp of a swine and a bitch in heat! Othin's ravens will eat of your entrails!" And with that colorful insult launched, he likewise swings with his axe, but he's wounded and his aim is off.

Grabbing the 'merchant,' Sumai growls at the man, "Fight man!" His hand slips a jambiya from his sheath at the huge warlord's back, deep voice roaring as he shoves the long, wicked knife into the Hafeez's hand. Shaped by the power of Messala's mages, the dagger gleams wickedly.

"Attack the enemy or die like a dog!" the huge, navy-clad man screams as he drags this man along with him towards the fray where he spots his younger brother battling a seemingly superior foe, and Sumai shoves the other man along with him. "Fight!" Then he lets go and moves in, stance going to a crouch as he closes towards Leif with his war axe spinning in one hand and the thickly played panzerhand presented at his fore.

Dropping back, Keegan moves steadily back toward Atesh-Gah, his left arm hanging lifelessly at his side as arcs of intense pain shoot up toward his shoulder. His bodyguards hack maniacally at Leif, two blades at once assaulting the man from before him, as a third cleaves an arm off another attacker. Keegan's dark eyes flicker about as steam rolls off of his armor, and he calls for his men to fall back.

Vladimir dives into a heavy snowbank as another Hound lashes at him with a sword, cursing in some language the Najada man doesn't understand. The snow around him trembles, and like the first Hound he encountered, Vladimir attacks the second with the same magic, catching him in a whirlpool of snow.

The Sylvan Hound screams as he falls, tangled up by the swirl of white.

Vladimir scans the marketplace for his brother and hastily makes his way in that direction, toward the tower that dominates this city.

Drusus staggers back, lashed by the onslaught of icy wind. He turns his own will and magic against that wind to keep himself from being pushed too far, and although he is not strong enough to stop the blow, he can weaken it. He leans forward, face expressionless, eyes both intense and completely empty, and brings the sword around to cut back up and across the creature who is his target. His wings -- huge, white, the pinions curved and separated like the fingers of a hand -- beat mightily to drive him forward against the wind, to help the edge of his blade kiss the body of the mage.

Once the innocents have departed the area, Maat returns to watching the progress and purpose of the Aesir, Najada and Rusalki. She moves carefully around the edges of the combat, nearing the gates of Delphi where the Hounds are regrouping. Once again, some unwary male becomes a smaller, but weapon-bearing shield as the al'Samar woman places herself in a locale where she can watch and wait.

Despite their lack of telepathy (thanks to some high priestess), the pale, webbed warriors join in to flank Izak, fending off the lighter charges from the Hounds to hack their way towards the Delphic entrance. Somehow, the attacks of the Haven force seem not as strong as they expected, and their way towards the Citadel seems free. That is, until Theron and his Praetorians interfere. A few of the conquering Atlanteans aim their sharkbone spears at the breastplates of the winged warriors, letting go of the shaft.

As the weapons fly around her ears through the air, Katya ducks only, trying to hide her tall form in the snow, but never releases the grip on Izak or step from his side.

Cyrene utters a cry of rage, the black of her eyes deepening, if such a thing is possible. Her arm is cradled to her naked form, strands of silver-white hair stained red by the flowing blood as they flutter around her, presenting an image of blood-stained snow, like the ground below. Her magic joins her sister, water and wind melding into a rage-fueled storm to bash the Empyrean into the ground, if she can just...

A jambiya. How awesome. There is an easiness with which the merchant Hafeez takes the weapon, and a resistance Sumai may not have expected, a glare darkening the amber of his eyes. But the man is dragged into the battle and finds there is little he can do about it. But that he had listened to his own advice...

With a growl, Hafeez falls in behind Sumai, covering the man's back, body tense, ready to jump. Old habits have a hard way of dying.

Almost there... but not quite. Izak comes to a halt, crouching and glaring at the winged, weaker-looking folk who now bar his path from the Citadel gates. One arm reaches out to push Katya back behind him. It becomes quite clear that this man intends to protect her from whatever may be faced next. Long dagger out, he grates out foreign words in a deep voice. Though it cannot be understood completely, the message is nevertheless clear. He's making a challenge.

The horde of Aesir moves ever closer toward the gates of Delphi, pulling into a tighter group. The bounty there is worth far more than the trinkets in the Rialto. Fighting savagely and without mercy at the defenders, no matter how badly they are outnumbered, they are covered in gore and blood and snow and revel in it, those that fall smiling as they expect their reward to be great for so glorious a battle.

Jenner's only response is a fierce grin as his blow connects, even as the one-handed weight of the trident -- a weapon meant for two hands -- pulls him in a quick full-circle away from the wild axe swing. It would be nothing short of graceful, had it been intended. Still, he's got the young Aesir's attention again, and Jenner begins to fall back toward the Hounds that have rallied to Caioma's cry.

In the heat of battle and the fury of the storm, it seemed as if there were a thousand invaders marching onto Haven's shores and streets. Now, with the fury of the storm abated and their reckless rush towards Delphi clear, Caioma begins to realize just how many of them there really are. Gaze hardening, she shouts orders to the incoming Hounds, directing the indigo-clad guards to start forming a half circle around the fight, enclosing the combatants between them and the walls of Delphi. Once her men are in place, they'll start closing in. Each of the new arrivals has a wooden shield put to good use before him.

The teachings also didn't talk about having so many opponents to fight. Spitting blood from out of his mouth, Leif pulls a heavy sword from its sheath. Now armed with both weapons, he grins once more, as if beckoning the dark, wingless ones onward. If he dies in this battle, he will be rewarded. If not, then he will merely live to see the next battle. Both sword and hammer are put into action as the Aesir concentrates on his opponents.

Her magic joining her sister's, Liolya desperately pushes back at Drusus, trying to keep him at bay even as he continues to strive forward. The Rusalka's alien gaze watches him as she tries to regain her focus and bring her wild magic to bear, calling forth the ice from the snow and trying to wrap it around him and hold him in place.

The rage is met by... nothing. What drives Drusus is not passion but sheer, cold, soulless instinct. The wind may drive ice into his flesh and pepper his clothing with flowers of frozen blood -- and it does -- but he does not stop. The wind may wrench his wings around so that the tendons thrum like the strings of a lute plucked too hard -- and it does -- but he does not stop. He may be battered about by suddenly shifting bolts of wind -- and he is -- but he does not stop. He may be pushed back, sliding, towards the edge of the roof -- and he is -- but he fights back, taking step after step back towards the two mages and all their power.

Drusus turns the edges of his wings into the maelstrom and strains with all of his might just to take those few steps back and to keep his balance against the thousands of stormy hands that pluck at him. His magic serves only two purposes: to deflect the wind and ice from his eyes so that those pale, pale grey orbs need never leave the forms of his objective, and to lessen the impact of their power.

One step. Then another. A step to steady himself. Drusus will not be denied.

Caleb makes his way closer to Delphi along with the other Hounds, prepared to help where he can. Even through the blood he is blinking, he can see enough not to get in the way. He ducks and dives more than defending or attacking. Best to save his energy for the rush that will come soon enough.

The huge Messala Warlord crouches forward slowly as the thickly plated, barbed hand's fingers flex back and forth as it weaves like a snake preparing to grab whatever presents itself or defend from a strike. Sumai steps forward, feinting a punch from the huge hand until he jabs forward the spike on the head of his axe. "If I grab his sword, cut his throat. Understand?" The deep voice booms to Hafeez at his back, believing these people incapable of speaking their tongue.

Freshened warriors against tired ones, even when the enemy is experienced in this kind of weather makes a difference. The Praetorians that Theron brought converge on the enemy, hoisting spear and arrow. Normally, this would be a regimented type thing, but this battle is one of survival.

Identifying Izak as leaders, he is bum-rushed by a pente, bent on cutting off the head of this particular snake. Meanwhile, the Velites -- as much as they might have disagreements with the Hounds -- go to their rescue. With their spears, their gladii, they begin to close on Vladimir and his company of warriors.

Sven's arm is bleeding, but the boy seems energized by it -- by the adrenaline pumping through him. This could well be his first battle. Certainly his greatest! He advances after Jenner, wings bristled and bunched at his back, his eyes alight with fervor. He swings again, but Jenner's retreated beyond his range, and so the youth starts after him eagerly; unaware of that flank of Hounds. He'll be right in the midst of them if he continues.

Falling back at last, Keegan is forced to loose his last dagger at Leif before turning around to break into a run. His companions will join Sumai's force when possible, and three Messala warriors should hopefully be enough to combat Leif. Blades spinning in a neverending dance of death, Messala forces cleave flesh from bone, snap ligaments and sinews, and herald death to more than one unlucky soul.

"Quit clowning around Sven, and finish the worthless spawn of a whore," Axel calls to the young Aesir. Talking to the youngster as he fights on. The weighty pommel of his axe crushes the skull of a Hound and he looks again for a worthy opponent to engage him. His wings tucked in close, he spins, lashing out with his foot to *snap* a knee with an audible sound and then bring down his axe-head across the Hound's back.

He looks around for Thorvald and does not see the chieftain. Nor does he see his sister. As his young thrall charges ahead, Axel has little choice but to keep up, pulled into the forming net waiting to engulf the raiders.

The telepaths left outside of Delphi's citadel are grouped together now, joining forces with their minds to block the uncaring Najada from the supporting presence of one another. They continue to march closer to the Citadel, joining the others who prepare themselves to surround the attackers, tridents drawn.

"Damn you Messala," Hafeez shouts from behind Sumai, stepping over bodies, ducking whenever a piece of ice or a layer of snow comes his direction, "You could at least have given me a proper falcare and some flaming armor!" But he follows the Warlord nonetheless, keeping any other attackers at bay best he can.

The Hounds move inexorably forward, tightening in their wall to surround the invaders. Caioma keeps her voice heard above the clamor of the battle, passing the orders on to the Reeves that pass it on down to the Sentire and Soldat. While some Hounds may still be engaged in the battle itself, she is sure to keep those that are with her together in formation. Soon, the strange Atlanteans and Empyreans will find themselves locked in between Delphi and the Hounds.

Cyrene takes a step back, bearing down on Drusus as well as she can. Her butterfly-like wings flutter uselessly in the wind as she takes another step back. Her bleeding arm reaches out to Liolya and the sisters rise once more from the roof, retreating slowly from the Empyrean advancing on them, the first light of fear showing in her eyes.

Still, the gale beats down on him, and the warriors below do not escape its force altogether. Drusus reaches out with the blade, pointing it directly at Liolya, its tip tracking upwards as she rises. Then, with a shift of magical skill, he turns his attempt to directly resist their magic into a ploy to deflect and strengthen it. The wind howls around him with renewed intensity and swirls around in a circle like a cyclone -- it whirls around and into the backs of both women, catching in those magnificent, alien expanses of membrane and pushing them towards him. Towards the roof. And Liolya towards the tip of the saber.

The dark eyes of the pale Najada mage deliver a threatening stare to the approaching Velites and his lips pull back in an almost feral growl. Vladimir backs up, only to find more of the spear-bearing men coming from that direction. He snarls and yells something unintelligible toward the advancing men as he strikes out the only way he knows how. The snow they trod through rolls like waves on the ocean, hoping to upend them as he had done before.

Even if Leif's sword is taken, he still has the hammer. Both are swung into an attack, the grin gone from his face as the youth concentrates. The surge of battle pushes him onward and a great battle-cry is shouted as he dives into attack the Varati. The tossed dagger sticks out from his armor like its mate, quivering slightly when he moves.

Two of the Najada circle around their leader, flipping their daggers anxiously to meet the Praetorians ahead of them. However, all of the other remaining hostile Atlanteans form a tight wall behind their leader, trying to hold their position and resist the incoming approach of the Hounds. No strike is delivered at the Hounds, but the will of defiance is there, even as the word and sent thought is lost to them.

There! Another Aesir being attacked by two foes at once. "Cowards! Curs! Sons of mangy dogs! Your mothers are unfit to be whores." And Axel charges with a bellow at Sumai and Hafeez, axe whistling through the air as he propels himself with his wings, striking at the 'merchant' and attempting to even the odds against his clansman. Attacking from behind of course. Really, it's not cowardly, simply good strategy.

Snapping her seal-like gaze from Drusus to her sister, Liolya's magic only falters momentarily. By the time she brings her gaze back to bear on Drusus, his blade is pointed at her once more and painfully close. That nearly inhuman shriek sounds once more and she assaults Drusus with all that her magic will allow. And considering how painfully close to consumption she is, it is quite an assault.

Jenner moves backward, the trident making one last defensive swing before the Hound is protected by the wooden shields of his fellow Hounds. The trident is used one last time -- an awkward throw at the young Aesir, even as Jenner is offered a short sword from the ranks that now close in around him.

Messala bodyguards recognize the form of Sumai, and fall in effortlessly with their warlord, fighting despite their injuries. "Keegan is safe," hisses one into Sumai's ears as he dances wildly with death, delivering kafir souls from the confines of their bodies.

Empyrean, Varati, Atlantean, Sylvan, Mongrel... even halfbreeds. In the years to come, sages will mark this time. For this moment, they fight together. Each on their own, and yet against common foe, and for the same cause. They fight for Haven, and all blood -- even that of the invaders -- is red.

Sven manages to evade the throw of the trident, but just barely -- he sidesteps, but his wings are flared wide, and a few feathers are taken off by one of the trident's points. "Arrrrgh!" is the youth's guttural cry; one which needs no translation. But he is denied retaliation by those wooden shields, and in his frustration, he hurls his own weapon toward his erstwhile foe. Which, for the moment, leaves him without one. He realizes this a second too late.

The pente keeps moving forward, for Izak, the pilum going out, seeking flesh to pierce with sharp edges. A cohors comes up behind, and splits itself, ten going to support the one surrounding Izak, the other going after Katya. They've realized that there is some sort of connection between the two warriors. The Velites have surrounded the force that Vladimir leads and begins a pincher maneuver, trying to crush them between friendly forces.

Blood begins to flow from Drusus' nostrils. It freezes almost immediately, blasted into silver-frosted ruby lace across his cheek and mouth. The ice has sliced through his skin, but there is no time to bleed before the wounds are frozen. Snow and ice flies around him, off of him, and clatters off of the leather cuirass that protects his chest. A few shards have driven into the dark maroon cuir-bouille, grey daggers thwarted just shy of his heart. He brings his other hand up, fighting the gale, to hold the sword's tip towards the two sisters, even as he is driven to his knees by the pounding of the wind.

Since -- at this angle -- the gale is actually holding him onto the roof, Drusus does not fight it except what he needs to keep from being blinded. He gazes upwards at them and brings almost the full brunt of his magic against their backs: pressure, wind to tear the ethereal membranes, to break the delicate struts, to push them down to him.

Katya won't give up and go down that easily. In a gesture of desperation, she rips her own utility knife from her belt. While she's currently safe behind Izak, no enemies close to her, she's preparing for the worst. The short blade is held in an awkward, untrained angle in front of her. For a brief moment, she closes her eyes, as if to send out a quick prayer to whatever god this woman has, until she refocuses her attention on the oncoming battle.

Such a full charge is hard to slow, Axel brakes with his wings and the metal of Hafeez's blade rattles against chain mail, the only thing saving the huge Aesir from being eviscerated. He tosses his axe from hand to hand, and then resumes a double-handed grip. A grim smile on his face and resounding laugh preludes his next strike toward the merchant-cum-warrior. An overhanded blow meant to split skull or blade. Or possibly both. The observant will notice he is slower than when the assault began and his breath heavier, leaving a fog in the chill air.

Cyrene allows her sister to drop a couple of feet, just out of the range of Drusus' saber for the moment. Her eyes widen and head is shaken vehemently at the sudden onslaught of outside forces on her mind. Distracted by pain, concern, and a continuing assault, Cyrene and her sister sink a couple feet more, the winds lessen a bit more, and Cyrene attempts to shield Okalani from her inner mind. Droplets of blood from her arm splatter across the face of the Empyrean who seeks to bring them down. Wings tightly folded are wrenched and pulled, threatening to rip. Another shriek of pain escapes her.

Though it's hard to tell with her alien gaze, Liolya's expression is wild and partially crazed with the rush of magic coursing through her system. Fighting for their lives, the Rusalka keeps her magic forced on Drusus, trying to keep him at bay and push him away so that they may flee.

The snow rocks again, taking down a couple of the Velites, but there are too many around Vladimir for him to take them all down at once. The snarl deepens as he spins around wildly, without the ability to communicate with his brother.

Hafeez doesn't bother to answer Sumai, needing his attention to the axe waving before him, his eyes never leaving the blade. He doesn't smile or glare, his expression oddly calm, and when the thin-winged Empyrean needs all his strength to bring the blade down, he simply gets out of the way, rolling on the snow-covered ground, throwing his own blade at random to the man.

Swordless now, his first aim is to get himself a new blade. Not such a hard task, with dead men strewn around. Hafeez wriggles a falcare from a deceased Varati's fingers. Now, he smiles. At Axel. He motions the Aesir with two fingers to please step forward.

So he is to die here on this day in this strange city. Izak may be good, but in the deepest recesses of his mind, he isn't sure he's that good. Gripping his chipped-stone dagger even more tightly, he edges closer in a protective stance towards Katya. Again, he speaks, low and harsh, eyes dancing from one Praetor to the next. Without being able to communicate with his men, however, he is oddly... alone against a force of many.

Even if Leif's sword is taken, he still has the hammer, which meets the Varati's axe. "Damn your eyes... die already!" He grimaces as the larger man buffets him. He may be larger than your typical Empyrean, but the other is still a little larger. Wings are then smacked in the man's face as both weapons are engaged at the moment.

Having secured the Korallion under the orders of Rhys and summoned reinforcements from the bay to keep that area safe, Riva brings whatever spare troops she can summon into the area, a breastplate and protective armor hurriedly put on atop her usual garb.

Teams of three surround the Decemvir while they pause to assess the situation, quick threads of thought reaching out to request 'report.' Groups of Atlantean warriors in Ormani gear pick strategic spots and block the exits of the southern streets, barricading them to protect the southern portion of the city from the battle in progress.

More knots of the guards make a protective arc with Riva as they begin to seek out her kind, to force a way toward them. Her expression is stern -- all are silent though it is clear orders are being rapidly exchanged from the manner in which they move.

Katya was never good with the knife, and it doesn't look like she's going to learn it today, standing against a full pente of trained Praetorian warriors. Robbed of her abilities, and without the vision of her god, she feels helpless and naked (not that she wore all that when she came here). Despite the physical presence of her husband and leader, she can feel his tension, feels that not everything is all right.

Pressing her own side harder against his, Katya slips the knife again into her belt. As cold and hard as the woman has appeared so far, now her hand seeks the protection of Izak's.

With a wide grin, Axel wipes blood from his mouth and draws his axe back from where it has cleaved the snow and chipped the blade against stone streets. He spins it, presenting the other face and walks slowly toward the beckoning opponent. A glance around, and he knows he and the other Aesir men and women are surrounded. He intends to go down fighting and let his next battle be at Othin's side. "Let's dance. Ha! And I'll have your wife after I finish ending your life!" The axe blade swings, this time in an upward, angling arc.

Several, more than that, slip under the wind and snow, going down as if sucked under by a riptide. The others try to adjust their footing. Of the winged soldiers, wings flare out, to steady them. But still they converge on Vladimir and his men. Onward!

As for those surrounding Izak and Katya, still they move closer. As much as he can, Theron is trying to direct battle, though he does fight in his own way, for he picks up his crossbow and demonstrates his superiority in his weapon of choice, though it might not be as effective in this manufactured weather.

The wall of indigo continues closing in on the fight. Hounds keep themselves shoulder to shoulder as they try and pen in the warriors fighting in the Rialto just outside of Delphi. For her part, Caioma scans the crowd with a look of concentration on her face.

Eldred has turned around, his gaze tilted to the sky as well so that the battle between the Emperor and the strange Rusalki may be followed by two pairs of eyes. The brown ones of himself and those of Okalani, whose thoughts are engaged in yet another battle of the mind, this time determined to shatter the conversation between the two sisters battling the leader of the fair winged ones.

The limbs of the young Arch-Magus no longer move, and her blood must have slowed down too much, for her complexion is rapidly fading away when all her energy is used to maintain her grasp on that part Aether she can reach out to. Within the back of her own mind is the presence of the elderly Salicia, coordinating things within Delphi, no doubt preparing for the final strike.

Again, Hafeez watches how Axel needs all his strength to direct the blow. First, he needs to get away from that blade, jumping out of the way, but the moment the axe has passed him, he steps forward, intending to cut at the man's arms, but the snow makes him slip and the merchant loses his balance, his sword now only able to cut into one, instead of both arms. Growling now, he kicks at Axel's legs.

Axel lets out a howl of pain, too inarticulate to be even the Aesir's guttural tongue. Blood blossoms from the slide on his already weakened arm. He steps back, panting as the crimson life-blood falls to the snow. But still he wears that smile and laughs. He holds the axe in one hand and waits, returning the injured arm to its grip. He'll go on the defensive and wait. Perhaps he will not die just yet. Wings flex in anticipation.

They're closing in, but if Izak is nervous, he does not allow it to show on his face. Clinging to his dagger with one hand, he allows his other to be taken by Katya. Again, he speaks, but his words are not directed at the Praetorians this time. They are for her alone.

Then Izak speaks more loudly, shouts... his tone is bland and monotone, voice unused to being put to work, and the words are directed towards his own men.

The thrown axe of the young Aesir embeds itself into the wall of wooden shields that closes before Jenner. The mongrel Hound falls back into the ranks of his fellows, withdrawing from the worst of the battle.

Katya senses: Izak says, "Be strong," to you. And to his men, he yells, "Hold steady. Vodyanoi awaits us."

The plated mask that is Sumai's helmet deflects most of the blow, except for those damnable feathers poking at his eyes. Unable to see, he especially refuses to back up; in fact, the huge Messala presses his powerful, heavy body forward, trying to push the other man down. Moving to snake a leg through the other Aesir's leg to try and move to trip the man.

"Whatever you said, beast-man, you will die by the fury of Atar's children!" The panzerhand begins to clench and starts to break the sword that Leif had stolen from Sumai's own brother. Teeth gritting in effort, the Varati's body moves to grind his opponent's down.

Ah, yes, it has been some time since Riva has been in a fray, yet years of training are not forgotten by muscles. One hand grasps her usual weapon, the mace and a bit of a light seems to sparkle in her eyes, though if it is anger or anticipation is uncertain. Cold does not seem to slow these people, used to the chill of water, but ice and blowing wind does have the same effect on them as any other person in such elements.

One of the guards on Riva's left slips on a patch of ice in what was a lucky accident, a weapon flies where his head was, sparing him a messy death, though the top of one ear becomes suddenly missing, and he will have to comb his hair oddly to hide a 'scalped' spot.

They do not stop but push forward toward Okalani, merging with the other Atlantean guards into a denser ring, and one that perhaps is prepared, fresher. Riva stares toward the priestess, now within range to reach her. The feel of her thoughts is simple. 'Information.'

Sven mutters some curse as he finds himself without a weapon, but that doesn't last long. He's got a knife strapped at his side, and he quickly frees it from its sheath, his eyes darting back and forth along the line of Hounds. "Cowards!" he yells a challenge to them. "Come meet my blade! I'll slice out your eyeballs and roast them over my fire! I'll grind your bones in my teeth! I'll... I'll..." He's running out of insults, and steam. Yet the boy continues to stand there defiantly, half-crouched with his wings flared, brandishing that dagger and daring any one of the Hounds to come at him, wounded arm or no.

Vladimir looks toward where his brother stands, and lets out a rough call toward Izak, since the telepathic connection has been harshly severed. The rolling of the snows around him has settled slightly as his magic weakens. Even those strong in magic must succumb to exhaustion at some point, and it seems that time is coming for the Najada warrior. He retains the snarl on his lips, hoping that his expression alone will frighten away the Velite forces that surround him and a couple of the other Najada.

Maat remains behind the ranks of Hounds which hem the Aesir and Najada in with their sturdy wooden shields. Eerily silent amid the shouting in languages known and unknown, her golden eyes continue to watch the combat and the direction of Aesir's and Najada's progress while staying out of the fray.

Not a very good thing when you're on the ground and some weird Empyrean is holding an axe above your head. Hafeez makes use of the momentum and again rolls away, is quick about getting up again, only to see Axel waiting for him. No show of challenge this time, the would-be merchant coming at the man in a tense crouch, the tip of his falcare waving this way and that in an attempt to distract his opponent. But still he waits for the other man to strike first again.

Leif actually helps the stolen sword to break... that way he can stab the shard of it at his opponent. Shuffling to the side, he ducks as he removes his hammer from the locked position with the axe and aims it at the larger man's gut. If he's lucky, a few ribs and organs will be crushed.

Eh, so he looks frightening. Have you ever seen a Centurion on a bad day? Now that's enough to scare the life out of you, particularly when he suggests that perhaps you need to start scrubbing floors -- but nevermind that. In truth, these Velites have been battle-hardened, they press forward against Vladimir and his men.

It is a dance, though less cultured than some. Axel circles, eyes watching his opponent. The feints with the tip of the lighter weapon go ignored. Furtive glances about the area. Where is the Chieftain? There's a sense things are going to worsen. Surrender is not an option and retreat cut off. Wings beat, sending up plumes of red and white snow to distract his opponent. It is his turn to grin and gesture the other forward. A mirror image of the invitation given earlier. Call it a cultural exchange if you will.

A bloody hand appears on one side of the smithy's roof, and slowly, raggedly clenches the edge. Then, another, and Thorvald Drengsen pulls himself to the top, his eyes flashing as he takes in the scene. He's nearly a wreck of a man at this point: whatever the Aesir has been doing, it's taken a deadly toll on him. A guttural roar escapes him as he surveys the situation, and he charges the Empyrean on the roof. His axe is still looped on his belt, and with no time to draw it, he tackles Drusus hard from behind.

Katya's touch on Izak's hand is light, for she knows that the man at her side might need to rip himself from her any instant. However, it lacks no urgency and shows possibly even a sort of tenderness that years have suppressed. One other hand reaches out towards the warriors surrounding her and her mate and a young Najada , covered with blood and barely keeping his knife up, clutches his palm into the woman's.

The other pale warriors remain standing as pillars of ice, still ready to defend themselves. At Izak's call, their expression only grows grimmer, their muscles tensing. And while Katya says no word, her look alone shows fanatic agreement with her man.

Shields up! Lock and load phas- er, pilum. A mass of points rush out, seeking to take the lives from Izak and Katya. A sort of inverse porcupine. Die, die, die! Or have the grace to fall to the ground injured, will ya? The Imperator continues to try to pick off warriors where he can, though one can be certain he never trained in this sort of weather. He does do what he can to take in account for all the variables, snow, wind, acts of gods known and unknown, the lares.

Still shouting the occasional order to keep her men in place, keeping the fence of Hounds around the invaders, Caioma keeps darting eyes up to the top of Delphi's walls, as if she were waiting for something or someone to appear.

As the Empyrean-looking man pulls away, the huge Messala jumps back and stumbles, briefly, on the smashed corpse of some unrecognizable Mongrels who dared stand nearby. Sumai growls as his huge foot finds some ground to stand on, and his huge panzerhand flicks out to push the hammer down as it swings near his belly, clipping the thick plate across his midriff, eliciting a sharp grunt. Then, stepping forward with his weight, as trained folk do when they strike so, the panzerhand to an uppercut with the barbs and serrated ridges of the Sumai's evil gauntlet. Aiming for the other man's throat or collarbone area.

Hafeez takes a step back, his vision momentarily blurred by snow whirling between him and Axel. The merchant crouches, picks something off the ground, hides his hand behind his back and accepts the invitation, nearing Axel with his falcare making teasing circles, sometimes feinting right or left as if to stab, but he never does. Only when he is near enough, does he throw the snow-covered rock at the Aesir's face.

Drusus, taking such care to keep his eyes from being injured, has paid no attention to his ears. The roaring of the wind has rendered him deaf, and even were Thorvald giving out a cry with all of the volume of a dragon at full rage, he wouldn't hear it. The heavy Aesir hits him square behind the wings as he reaches up to spear Liolya through the heart -- the blade goes spinning off into space, silver over silver over silver over silver until it is swallowed up by the snow.

Drusus is slammed against the rooftop -- all goes black -- and the circlet of gold bounces off of his frozen white hair and slides for a few inches before coming to a rest against the wind-blasted roof tiles.

It glitters there, plain and fine.

Reaching out to grab hold of her sister's hand and hold onto it fiercely, Liolya only lets up on her magic as she sees Thorvald tackle Drusus. Black eyes widen and her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Leif's hammer is swung in a heavy arc to block the deadly-looking barbs of the Varati... he is in an awkward position, but the wicked blades don't touch skin yet. If he lets go to smack the hand, his face could be torn off. So... after a moment's thought, he spits into the Varati's face. With such a short distance between the two, it might be hard to miss. Anything to blind the man once more.

Closer to Okalani does Riva go, one hand resting on her shoulder while the other still bears the mace, her stance protective. She nods once at something that must have been sent to her and she contributes her will and strength to Okalani's efforts, some of the guards not very powerful, some meager, but whatever effort they can exert they contribute toward blocking.

To Okalani, Riva speaks. "Forget the damn block, use what you have and stab these vile ones to the core, wound their minds one by one till they reel and can do nothing but recover." Whether her suggestion is one that would work or not is up to the stronger teacher to decide, but the military training demands more aggressive action be taken, thus the voiced suggestion.

Sven is still assaulting the line of Hounds with insults if not weapons -- all he has is that flimsy knife. His freckled face is red, his hair sticking up in wet patches, his wings bristled up against his back. For all his fury, the boy looks more ridiculous than intimidating, but he certainly has plenty of exuberance. His words are unintelligible to most, but it would seem clear that they are a challenge for any of the Hounds to engage him in battle.

Vladimir falls onto his last resort and grasps for the dagger at his hip. Not that it is much of a defense against a circle of men bearing their own weapons, but desperation is a funny thing. The pale Najada thrusts outward with the blade while continuing to guide the snows to trip up the Velites in the circle. The others with the mage also grab for their daggers, but it seems to be doing much good.

Cyrene clasps Liolya's hand in return, letting them sink to a lower ledge. Blood drips continuously from her arm, sapping both will and strength, leaving her magic weakened, and also somewhat out of control. The winds begin to lessen even more as Cyrene's seal-eyes focus on Thorvald and Drusus.

*Clang* The rock bounces from Axel's helmet and he turns his head to shake off the effects. Or try. Aesir are hard-headed. A few quick swings of the axe in a figure eight, aimed more at meeting the blade of Hafeez than an actual attack. To show he's still battle-worthy.

Upon hearing the call of help from his brother, Izak's eyes harden to sheer rock. He glances towards the surrounded Najada, and his grip tightens upon his wife's hand momentarily before he releases it. The circle of Najada tightens, and it becomes clear that Katya and the young warrior -- the leader's own son -- are to be protected. Only after Izak is dead will they too be sent to Vodyanoi's realms.

There is no need to speak telepathically, for the small group of warriors to know this. When they rush, Izak sounds a horrid, grisly cry to meet the Praetorians. Each and every one of his warriors is soon swamped. He fights bravely, but alas... the leader of the Najada is doomed to go down.

From atop the walls of the Citadel, heads and bodies begin to appear -- the mages of Delphi, finally adding to the fray. Those who are sensitive feel power begin to mass, though it has not, just yet, taken form.

Izak's rough voice rises once, "Vodyanoi awaits us, my brothers! For Vodyanoi!"

Grunting, Hafeez has had about enough of this strange battle. He lowers his falcare and looks at his opponent, ducking as a fragment of ice flies by only inches from his face. He is waiting -- perhaps if he waits long enough, the battle will die around him or the Aesir will grow bored.

With rage guiding his hand, Thorvald yanks Drusus roughly to his feet, and draws a sharp bone dagger in his right hand. Then, several things hit him at once: the desperate situation below, the crown that rolled from the unconscious man before him ...

Snarling, Thorvald stays his hand from a killing blow, and rather swings Drusus around, using the Empyrean as a human shield, and screams, a terrible shout that echos throughout the Rialto for all to hear. His dagger is at Drusus' throat.

Thorvald says "Hold! Or this one dies first!"

Drusus lies motionless on the rooftop. The long feathers are torn by the wind and several float free, spiraling into the sky. He looks as if he has been walking through a snow storm -- rimmed with ice and frost and snow, every instance tinged ruby with blood. The frozen locks of white hair clatter against one another. Then the wind eases and the limp wings settle against the rooftop.

Peace for a moment, before the unconscious man is hefted like a rag-doll. For anyone not familiar with the Emperor's appearance, those below might think that Thorvald's hostage is an ordinary foot-soldier.

Kitianta is atop the wall, with the mass of other earth-elementals. She looks down and the ground starts to shake, as she brings her elemental magic into play. The steady shaking increases, and stones start to shake.

One brave Velite trying to ignore that his friends, his mates, his fellows are disappearing around him takes aim and launches a spearhead at Vladimir. By the lares, by Tyche herself, let this one go in. The Velites continue to ebb and flow around the strange mage, knowing that if they can get to him, part of the weather might be stabilized. The Imperator swings his weapon up towards the roof, aiming at the one who is playing dolls with one of his warriors.

Only for the briefest moment lasts Izak's protection of Katya, before she, too, gets struck down by a pilum. A last strangled cry of, "Vodyanoi," escapes her throat in a strangled voice before she finally collapses upon the ground, her blood soon reddening the dirty snow.

And while both parents have gone down in almost the same moment, Hedeon, the young warrior, decides to avenge his father's death. With an outcry of anger, he leaps forward toward Theron, brandishing his knife in front of him, ignoring the force of Praetorians that await him.

Slowly at first, but then faster, the red-churned slush of the Rialto begins to move. What had been muck that sucked at the feet of the invaders begins to grip, and hold. Rock that had been a steady foothold become like mud, and feet sink into it -- only to be held fast. The ground of the Rialto grips at the invaders, slowly starting to immobilize them.

Sven ceases his volley of curses at the array of Hounds; he's distracted by various shouts. First from Izak, then from Thorvald up on the rooftop. The youth glances toward his Hoevding, who appears to be holding someone prisoner... but that's all he glimpses before the stones start to shake underfoot. Letting out a yelp, the boy flaps his wings and takes to the air, at least momentarily.

Spittle spatters all over Sumai's plated face mask, which leaves very little flesh exposed to be spat upon or attacked. Part hacks into one eye, which he starts to blink to try and clear it out, but the other is unharmed. The Master of Messala steps back just a bit to bring his panzerhand back to its defensive position, using the back step to fuel a swing of his war axe. It whips in a short, snapping arc to cut at Leif's ankle. Trying to force him to 'hop' backwards so that Sumai's next strike will be into an open face of the enemy he now face with his wickedly barbed fist.

Green eyes peek over the rampart for a moment before the full Sylvan appears, his arms full of plants. These, oddly enough, are hurled down at the combatants. It doesn't seem to matter where they hit, for they are thrown at random. But once landed, whether it be on the ground or on the back of a combatant, the plants begin to grow... to twine about those that fight... pulling arms to sides or pulling feet together.

So frail has Okalani become that no words can leave her lips, which are frozen into motionlessness, as are most of her other bodily functions. Her mind is focused only on the minds of the enemies, leaving her open and vulnerable to the thoughts of others around her, driving her further and further away from the world of the physically aware. Her emotions and rough concepts can be sensed however -- her sad relief that the two Elementals are somewhat halted, and a silent plea to Riva to aid in blocking those two siblings.

A spark of light enters Okalani's thoughts at the arrival of the Delphites, and she is unwary of the shaking of the ground beneath her, though the guards holding her up undoubtedly are.

A scream rips from Vlad's throat as the spear finds the flesh of his thigh and digs into him, dropping him to the ground as he groans in agony. An arm flails in the air in a vain attempt to signal Izak, but with the circle around him, it's doubtful anything is seen. The pale figure blends into the snow on the ground, but a faint trickle of blood rises from the wound and pours around the spear's shaft, leaving a small crimson river in the snow.

With the ground beginning to do what she was waiting for, Caioma starts bellowing out to her men still fighting, "HOLD YOUR WEAPONS! CEASE FIGHTING!" Part of the half-breed Commander holds her breath and waits, hoping that this will work. A shout in an alien language comes from behind, though, and she turns to stare up at the smithy rooftop. How did they... who do they...?

The ground's shaking intensifies, and spiny plants start to sprout all over, their spines gleaming with wicked poison.

Artin staggers into the Rialto, leaning heavily on a trident barely gripped in ice-rimed fingers, while the other hand hangs at his side. Drying, frozen blood trails from nose and mouth, but still he makes his way forward, catching up now that he is able, moving toward the group of Atlanteans near Riva.

Thorvald curses loudly, spitting out blood. Stupid! He ducks back behind the roof as the ground shakes, but re-emerges momentarily. Holding Drusus, still at knife-point, and something else now. The Emperor's crown, held aloft for all to see.

As the ground begins to shake and at the momentary break in the combat, Leif follows Sven's example and takes to the air. No one said anything about odd plants or shaking stones!

Even worse, the ground is alive! What strange magic is this, that these foreign barbarians possess? Those are the thoughts that roil through Sven's mind as the youth sinks back toward the ground -- for his wings cannot hold him aloft for long. He yelps again as the mud tries to suck his foot into the ground, and he manages to flap free a second time.

But not a third. With his foot stuck fast, Sven crouches and wildly attacks the ground with his knife.

Keeping close to her sister, Liolya has a deep frown on her alien face. Those dark, inscrutable eyes flip to Drusus and Thorvald before moving back to the crowd below.

The thunder-clap-like roar of Thorvald's voice draws Axel's attention. Or a part of it. He gestures with his axe toward that scene. The rumbling of rock gives him cause to leap in the air as well, but he cannot fly away, for plants snag his ankles, watered by the blood flowing from his forearm. He hacks at them with his axe, wearily trying to keep an eye upon Hafeez

Theron has been distracted by the soldier on the roof being held, that he does not notice the young warrior rushing him. In an ordinary battle situation, the Imperator would be surrounded as his counterpart had been, but this is not ordinary situation. Swift reflexes at the attack saves him from death, but not being injured by the avenging son.

Cyrene can no longer take her sister aloft to escape the shaking, so it is with a blood-stained hand she braces herself against the wall of the building next to them. She trembles from exhaustion and blood-loss and must concentrate hard to focus upon Thorvald and his hostage.

One of the Atlantean Sentries near Riva, used to thinking in three dimensions rather than two, is watching the sky above. Though he cannot see who is who up there, he can tell enough to see that one of the strangers seems to have one of the Empyreans who have visited the Korallion from time to time. Missiles are fired, small darts and quarrels from light crossbows aimed at trying to slow or stop the enemy -- better loss of friend's life than falling into their hands seems to be the thought he has. He calls attention to them even as weather and wind keep his aim from being true -- this is just not the Atlantean's best environs for fighting.

Not good. At the first sign of the ground changing, seeing what it does. Hafeez jumps onto the nearest corpse he can find, hacking with his falcare at the twining plants, determined not to get himself trapped. Jumping to another body, closer to Axel, the merchant's sword comes out of nowhere, directed fully at the Aesir's exposed arm.

The Velite who struck Vlad only has time for momentary glee as he raises his weapon to strike again, finishing off his enemy when he is struck in the back by one of those that Vlad had with him. He goes over in a pile. The rest of the Velites surge forward at this indignity.

The ground continues to shake, and small fissures appear as the earth reacts to the violent abuse. There. There is the power that they wear the Cerebus for. For a time, some of the Mongrels of the Hounds thought the Delphites might close themselves in their Citadel, leave their mundane Hounds to die defending the barred gates. But no. The earth shakes, and it seems the Tower itself is reaching forth.

Once Izak has hit the ground, the remaining warriors turn their back upon the passive, slowly approaching Hounds, to now face those who have killed their leader. With a strength and bravery born of desperation and knowledge of having little to lose and only glory to win, they charge in full-force at the remaining Praetorians once those have lost their grip upon the pilae.

Hedeon makes continued stabs and slices towards the Imperator, driven by a hatred that borders on insanity and seems capable of ignoring any danger he faces.

Hey hey hey! I was about to whack your damn foot off, you coward! Sumai growls and swipes at Leif with the axe as the man launches into the air, trying to cut his foot or calf or anything within reach. Sumai then looks around, the ground... moving. Volcano? Again? No... an earthquake? Strange. Magic? Maybe. He frowns and watches the area for attackers as his men rally around him, some bloodied and battered, but all alive, for the better and the worse.

Stepping back from the half-circle her men have made, Caioma frowns up at the rooftop that holds Thorvald and Drusus. Eyes scan around the area and fall upon Theron. Using the same commanding bellow, she shouts out to him, "IMPERATOR! Call off your men." And with that, she lifts a finger towards the Aesir and hostage.

Leif lands a distance away and tries to move towards one of his fellow Aesir, but he is nearly tripped up as vines twine themselves about his ankles and feet... too many and too quick to bash at. Turning to Thorvald's shout, he is grudgingly comforted by the fact that all those fighting are caught in the strange magic.

More plants mysteriously bloom. It looks like the mages aren't holding back. And down Izak does go, but not without taking someone with him. Bleeding in the snow, eyes closed and skin an eerie, dead-white pale, the leader of the Najada lies still with a Praetor atop him. The man's stone dagger is firmly lodged in the Empyrean man's throat, whilst the pilum of the other warrior is firmly impaled into his shoulder. Countless other wounds mar Izak's ice-white skin.

Thorvald frowns, concentrating. He steps back as the shower of bolts fly up at him and Drusus, in disbelief. He steps forward again, and shouts, "CITY PEOPLE! STOP FIGHTING!!" Drusus is given another shake from the roof.

Earthquakes? This, the Praetorians and other Empyreans have had experience with, some year or so back, though it seems a million a way at this point. They begin to fly where they can, but not away, hovering. This group does not include the Imperator, who battles for his life, and does not, unfortunately, hear the call.

Benedict does, and he starts trying to distribute the orders as he can.

The huge axe does its job, but the trembling ground and the vines and the blood loss and the drain of the battle lust fading after so long a fight. His parry is to slow, his arm struck by the blade and a snap as another cut opens up, deeper then the others even as bone snaps. The axe clatters to the ground and Axel stares at the other, nodding. If he's to be slaughtered, he'll meet it with a smile. The injured arm dangles.

Shouts begin to circulate across the walls, "Hold them! Only hold them!" It steadily becomes obvious to those paying attention that things are reaching a stalemate. Most of the warriors on the ground are immobilized, but Thorvald holds a hostage for all to see. Caioma pulls her eyes from Thorvald to look towards the Citadel, looking for any Estrella to take charge of this situation. She's a warrior and this is a point where fighting is useless.

Drusus's head lolls against the forearm that keeps it held back, that keeps his throat bared for the blade Thorvald has pressed against it. Spiderwebs of blood, frozen in fine red lines, cover his arms from the scratches engraved there by ice.

Shouting everywhere, Hafeez glances up, but only sees one Empyrean holding another. As if he cares... He steps onto another lifeless body, and with his falcare, begins to take the feathers from Axel's wings, rather lazily, but takes only five before he gets bored, bending to give the Aesir as hard a kick in the guts as he can, leaving the man to his own devices on the changing ground.

Sven is stuck fast, and all he's accomplished with slicing and slashing with his knife is to nick himself in the foot, and blunt the edge of his blade. Yet Thorvald's voice, roaring out in the same odd language of these people, stops him cold, and the youth stares upward toward the rooftop, then warily around at his surroundings. Will these honorless enemies strike them down now, while they're helpless? He tightens his grip on his dagger. He'll make sure he takes a few of them with him before he is borne away to Valholl.

Riva nods to Okalani's silent plea and becomes still, a glance toward Artin making him responsible for her safety as she dedicates her effort into the requested block. Gossamer layers are cast to provide barriers, ones that move and shift yet do not tear, then tighten. The urge is to try to pit herself in a more aggressive way, but she heeds Okalani's request, like it or not, and attempts mocking the blocks she has seen and felt others make.

Some of the Atlantean Sentries almost bristle at some silent order. Arms flex and shoulders set in near defiance; once battle is joined, it is hard to stop them, yet they are too well trained to do anything but obey.

To Artin they look as weapons are stayed and lowered just enough to signal they will not be raised unless further signs of aggression are presented.

Vladimir struggles in the snow, eyeing the spear in his leg and the blood draining from him as if it was a different person's wound. By Vodyanoi's hand, what has happened to him? He growls again and tries to move, but finds himself unable to do so. All he can do is wait to be taken by his god and hopefully judged worthy to spend eternity with him. His eyes scan upward, watching Thorvald and the pale-winged man, furious that the Aesir seem to be surviving while he lies here immobile.

Aye, who cares. Gut the Empyrean and get back to the warring like proper men would. No Varati worth pissing on would care one whit less if the man struck down the Emperor himself. Sumai's olive-brown eyes look for an opponent, only to see that they have all fled his immediate presence. "Useless cows. Won't even fight when they're in trouble, only when they're sure they can win," he growls in a deep, rumbling voice full of vibrato trembling.

"Lazy whelp," Axel calls, stifling cries of pain as his feathers are picked apart. At the kick to his gut, chain-mail rattles. The armor ineffective and keeping his breath within him. He falls to the ground, laughing softly as he holds his broken arm. His gaze locks on his leader and he waits for what will come next.

The gates to the Citadel are opened enough for a body to move through. Despite the deep cold and raging snows, the first emerging figure does not seem to be dressed to combat it. In fact, with his bright red garb, he looks like quite a ready target. A hand is raised for those at the ramparts to cease for the moment so that he may walk to the aggressor... the one holding the Empyrean. He has no wings and cannot fly over the stalemated battle. Pausing a moment, Niamh glances back to wait for the other Estrel to accompany him.

Finally, finally, the experience of the Imperator wins out over the insanity of the youth, and the Praetor delivers a blow that injures, but does not kill. But he has not gone unblooded in this fight, he stands, scratched, marked. His head swings back to that rooftop and the one who holds one of his men hostage. Wait second, he recognizes that soldier -- Theron rushes forward, as if he can do something from here. And stops.

Just to be on the safe side, Hafeez kicks Axel one last time in the ribs, then simply leaves the man with disgust riding on his face. From corpse to corpse, hacking furiously at approaching vines, he makes his way to Sumai, openly glaring at the Warlord. Things seem to have calmed down some, Khalid knows why, but he still has some words to say to Sumai.

Sven pants heavily and glances around, noticing Axel down, held fast by those same plants. "Axel?" he calls worriedly.

Thorvald lowers the crown, placing it on Drusus' head. He goes back to holding the knife at Drusus' throat, now that he seems to be garnering some attention. He eyes the crowd for his men, and those who seem to be important.

After the one in red comes another through the gates of Delphi, this one in robes of white that bear all the appearance of being put on hastily. An Empyrean, he is winged, but his wings are a pale beige rather than snowy white. Niherlas walks along with Niamh, through the ruint Rialto with all those held by the muck, and comes to the ground below the roof where Thorvald and Drusus are.

Jolted by the kick, Axel manages to hang on to his consciousness. He spits a mixture of blood and saliva onto the ground and lies there in the cold, blinking and fighting to stay awake. His good hand searches for his knife to try and free himself. At the rate he's going, it's unlikely he'll finish soon. Hearing Sven, he looks that way and smiles. "I am alive... can you reach my axe?"

For her part, Liolya is silent beside her sister, watching with deceptively impassive eyes as the fighting stops and these strange people in robes come forward.

Leaving her men to continue guarding, Caioma steps forward as well, keeping to the rear of the Estrella, but hovering in a protective manner. Not that they couldn't defend themselves, but still...

Thorvald nods to Niamh and Niherlas as they approach from the tower. "Let us go," he says in a thick, heavily-accented voice, "and this one lives."

Kitianta, standing among the other elementals, watches the proceedings curiously. She'd been fast asleep when the invaders struck and is curious.

Sven starts inching closer to Axel, hacking at the plants that have twined around his own ankles and wrists, but he's not making much headway. "What strange sorcery is this?!" he demands, trying to hide the all-too-boyish ripple of fear in his voice. He's not a boy, he's a man. Men don't show fear. Axel certainly never does. "I can't reach your axe," he admits, shamefacedly. Then, alarmed, he glances around and demands, "Where is Svala?"

Niamh glances about at the carnage and blood the Rialto has seen this day before looking up to the strange, winged one. Another glance is given to Niherlas before he speaks, "Who are you? Why have you come here?" It's not very creative, but it hopefully gets answers. Crossing his arms at his chest, he waits for those answers... personally not caring what happens to the Empyreal Emperor, but as Estrel, he at least must pretend to care.

Theron swings his eyes from Thorvald, to the Estrels, back to Thorvald. That's quite a demand to make, and not one that he thinks the Delphi should be making, no matter if they run Haven or no. Drusus is the Empyreal Emperor and they have no right. Briefly, the thought goes through his mind that someone higher up in the Schola is going to have a cow, then several others are going to lose their heads. But that's neither here nor there for now.

Niherlas nods to Niamh, allowing the other to speak. He does, however, lean in to speak a few words to the Varati Estrel.

Hedeon, the young, brave Najada warrior, gets struck by the Imperator's blow and follows his mommy and daddy into the snow. As he tries to get back to his feet, the mud and sudden active plant-life grasp for him, and for the other strange Atlantean warriors. Their aggressive tendencies stop for a moment, looking between Theron, Caioma and Thorvald. It looks like even the Najada give peace a chance. Or maybe they don't have any other choice, with now the earth also fighting them.

Leif works on trying to free himself from these odd plants that seem to grow in the cold. He's willing to cease for the time being... after all, Thorvald is in charge of the situation. Right now he wouldn't mind reaching Sven and Axel... or any other Aesir.

His feet grabbed tightly to the ground beneath him, Eldred is unable to move, though his brown eyes do seek out those of the Decemvir at his side before he turns his shoulders, giving the helpless woman in his arms the chance to lay eyes upon her two colleagues. Okalani's complexion as pale as the hue of her clothes, she doesn't release her hold upon the thoughts of those Najada, nor do those of the warriors still gathered around her.

Sumai stands in place and backs away from any encroaching plants. One of them touches him and he'll find out who the culprit was and have some throats cut some time. His olive-brown eyes look at the Empyrean. "Pah, kill him so we can get back to fighting, boy. He's looks like he's already dead in any case," the huge silver, sparkling Warlord of Messala speaks. Looking at the other, somewhat though not entirely cowardly 'merchant' who approaches him. He spits, "They think we care for some damn bird man?"

The knife that Axel wields does not do a much better job the Sven's. "It is all right. Thorvald has things under control." He winks to the youngster. It's not so much he isn't scared, as he has learned to fight it back. And he hopes to encourage the youth. "And as for my sister, she probably snuck off to bed down some unsuspecting lout. Or she lives on the battle field. Or she has gone on to Valholl. Either way, you should not worry over her."

The various shapers and elementals watch the Estrel, readying their magic in case it should be needed. Many of them whisper to each other as others repair damaged growth and strengthen bonds.

"Just cut his throat, you would do us all a favor," Hafeez bellows, backing up Sumai, despite the angry look he is still sending the other Varati. In a softer voice, meant for Sumai's ears only, he continues to talk.

Thorvald's eyes flask from the Estrella to Theron, to Caioma, as well. "Thorvald, son of Dreng," he says by way of introduction to all four. "We came to fight, for land and food." He's almost surprised at the question. Isn't it obvious? Haven't these people seen a raid before? "But," he says, with a glance to Delphi, "the Tower is here. We cannot die. My people must know that the legends are true. That is why I do not fight to the death this day."

Niherlas looks back over his shoulder, "Warlord of Messala. Please." Then he returns his gaze upwards to Thorvald, "What legends, Thorvald, son of Dreng?"

Thorvald looks to the Aesir and the Najada in the crowd. "Forgive me," he says. "I should have joined you all in Valholl this day. But our people must know the White Tower exists!"

Sven lifts his chin even as he tries to hide that uncertain bob of his adam's apple at Axel's words. "What... what do you think they will do with us?" he asks. His searching gaze falls upon Leif, and the youth looks relieved to see the other still alive. "Leif!" he calls out. "Are you hurt?"

Cyrene leans against her sister lightly, stemming to flow of blood with the pressure of her other hand as best she can. Her bright, ebon eyes are focused on the interchange beyond her and Liolya, for if they cannot withdraw, she will be of no further use in a fight.

Ignoring the Varati in the background, Caioma furrows her brow as she listens and watches. As Thorvald speaks their language in his stilted way, she murmurs, "Legends? What legends have they heard?" It's not directed at anyone in specific, but mumbled as if she simply voiced a thought aloud.

Say what? What legends? More than several Praetorians move their heads around to glare death-threats at the Messala. Just because they fight side by side this day, doesn't mean they wouldn't cheerfully want to land a pilum in your guy, Hafeez.

The Imperator pays all the necessary attention to the peanut gallery, which is none, as he tries to get what's going on here.

The Tower? Some of the more outgoing Delphites giggle. A legend about Delphi? They must never have meet Nightmare. She'd quickly disillusion them of THAT idea.

Riva remains silent, steady, color becoming pale as her hair mats to her hastily pulled-on light armor. Feet find they have frozen to the ground and as her chest rises and falls with each breath, there is a muted, crackling sound. She does not let her attention wander, efforts given without reservation to assist Okalani.

Thorvald gives Niherlas an odd look. They're from the Tower, and they don't know? "Delphi," he says. "The White Tower. A place of magic. I did not think it was true." He hasn't relaxed his stance yet, and still holds Drusus captive. "The skalds say it grants magic to mortals. We will not fight you more. Let us go, and he lives." Drusus is given a light shake.

A turning of his head, and Axel looks over at Leif. Chuckling at his thrall's question. "Most likely he is. But women love to run their fingers over scars and other hardened body parts." He puts his knife away and looks for a sword within reach. Ahh, maybe that one and he can free himself. "And they will either let us go, or they will enslave us, or they will kill us. Again, not worth worrying over til it actually occurs." Axel's been a slave before, he can do it again if he must.

Looking at the other man, Sumai shrugs his huge shoulders upwards, a clinking and rasping of his steel mail as the thick and corded muscle moves. "Then go away -- I've no use for a man who would hide from a battle. Perhaps you would have earned some gold or a man's death for acting, but your cowering has hindered that, even," he says in his own deep, rumbling voice as he moves his hand dismissively. "Though, I ought let them have taken the bird man," he says in a louder voice again. The huge man shifts his mail-clad body as he watches the conversation.

Niamh shoots a glare to Sumai and Hafeez as well before turning back to this 'Thorvald.' "This land is ours... but food could be shared. There are more peaceful ways for asking for such." It almost grates upon him to say those words, but he cannot play his other role this day. "Where would you go, should we give you leave?"

The light shake does not wake up the unconscious Drusus. It's too cold for the bruise to properly come to light, blood sluggish in the capillaries, but he's gonna have a beaut of a shiner.

If he lives.

A few of the Delphites growl at the idea of letting the invaders trade or leave.

Leif manages a grin back at the only one here younger than he, "No... no' much." Of course, he's beginning to feel the cut to his leg and to his face. Figuring the hacking at vines to be pretty much useless he sits, waiting for the outcome of this boring verbal exchange.

"Spoken like a true Messala," Hafeez snickers openly at Sumai, not even attempting to hide the hatred he has for this clan. "Full of words, but only one place to put them. No wonder you people are always so tight..."

Sure. Once the Emperor is safe, then we track you all down and kill you, finishing off the job. Go on, do that. Theron waits politely for the actual negotiations to begin. The sooner he gets Drusus back in his clutches, and surrounded by the remains of the Guard, he'll be fine.

Thank goodness it is not full summer, or there would not be much chuckling going on. There would be gagging. Luckily, though, the extreme cold locks in all the stench of blood and death. Intestines, hewn limbs, skin, frozen eyes -- all are clumped with mud and frozen into abstract sculptures around which the greenery flourishes.

Sven spits on the ground and declares hotly, "They won't enslave me! I'll cut out their gizzards and spit their livers on my blade!" Sven is given to extravagance, and he's already putting a great deal of thought into his revenge. He glances at Leif, even more relieved to see that the older youth is not quite ready for the hallowed hall of Othin yet. But then another thought brings him up short, and he forgets all about battle and negotiations for the moment to glance back at Axel, wide-eyed. "Do women really like scars?" He did get wounded on his arm. And it's even bleeding still! It will make a very nice scar.

The Najada's leader might have something to say about this verbal exchange as well, but we'll never know what it is, seeing as how he is still unconscious and bleeding on the ground. Izak is still out cold, his thoughts now only a blank pattern, similar to one who sleeps. He's not dead... at least, not yet.

Among the Delphites, the usual whispers occur, as a breeding ground for rumors is formed among the various chatter. The pressed bodies are not cold, as the mass is quite warm due to the large amount of body heat.

Thorvald shrugs at the question. "Home," he says plainly. "When weather is better, some might come again, to the tower, to ask for magic." It all seems pretty moot about now, honestly. "Some might make a colony near." He doesn't seem to care about all the death around him. Just part of the job.

"There are none but true Messala. That is why we are They Who Do Not Fail, fool," Sumai says to Hafeez in a snorting voice as he shakes his head at his words. "Go away now. I've better things to do than bicker with you, like, perhaps, incite these idiotic looking Empyreans to kill the Emperor," he says as he looks on at the group of idiotic people trying to soothe a group of useless Empyreans and goofy, nude fish folk who just attacked. Likely the death toll numbers in the hundreds, yet they want to 'get along.' "In the Varati lands, this would create a war for generations to come. Now you seek to make peace with these creatures? You are all fools. They will return to kill your children."

A ribald laugh from Axel that turns to a somewhat wet cough. "Indeed they do, Sven. You've had your first battle this day, perhaps tonight you will have your first woman. May she be the first of many." He gives up on the sword and slowly sits up, clutching his arm, inspecting it. "Leif, how many men did you send to their reward this day?"

Riva moves her hand on Okalani's shoulder, tightening it and releasing supportively. She stares at those of Delphi, willing them to heed her as she advises. "Send healers to those who need it, to sustain life while you talk."

Niherlas takes a half-step away from Niamh, and holds out his arms. There is nothing in his hands, and no weapons belted to his side. "I am coming to you, Thorvald, son of Dreng. Without weapons, in peace."

Without waiting for a response, his pinions unfurl -- three wingbeats and he alights on the rooftop, outside of any weapon striking range. "You want our magic. Tell me then," and Niherlas motions towards all held motionless in the Rialto, "Who among the wounded is dear to you? Point them out."

Standing near the roof where Thorvald holds Drusus hostage, Liolya supports her sister. The inhuman black eyes watch with the faintest hint of concern etched on her features.

Leif makes a chopping gesture at Sven's outburst, "Shhh! D'ye want t'give 'em ideas?" He's almost glad that Axel changes the subject. A grin is given as he proudly announces, "At least three. Stopped countin' after engaging tha' one." A nod is given in the direction of Sumai. "Son of a dog..."

Hafeez purses his lips while Sumai speaks, then sadly shakes his head. "Truly spoken, Messala, sitting there on your high wyvern. I do say it is nothing short of a miracle you are not looking down on Khalid, may his Flame forever warm us." But he does step away, the falcare still in his hand. Messala make, such coincidence. He moves in on Axel again, making a soft sound of disapproval, kicking the man just for the sport of it.

Point to me, point to me. Ok, Katya actually can't say that, she's just lying motionlessly in the snow. And she was never all that close to any Aesir. But, hey, she just did her job, and if it wasn't for that priestess of that sickish, weakish goddess, she would have even done her job well. But now... things don't look so good anymore. Still, she wouldn't mind getting healed now. Even if she's gonna be humiliated by some Aesir, or treated by some southerners. The pain in her chest simply hurts.

The Korallion Guards move to free themselves of the entrapment, not so much to do battle, but because the webbing adhering will become damaged and affect swimming ability. All remain alert, ready to act if need be.

Unlike his brother, Vladimir still retains consciousness, if but only a sliver. He watches the exchange though half-open eyes, but has no idea what is being discussed as the foreign words pass back and forth between the pale man in the robe and the Aesir chieftain. He glances over and finds one of his companion trapped by strange-looking plants and then realizes that he, too, is captured by the greenery.

Niamh watches as Niherlas ascends before asking, "What guarantee would we have that you would not attack like this again, should we offer you the knowledge?" He makes no mention of a possible colony yet. That would have to be discussed at great length, no doubt.

Sven keeps half an eye on the proceedings going on on the rooftop, and the other half on those down below -- watching to see if anyone seems ready to butcher himself and his companions. He's still wriggling and slicing at the plants holding him fast, for he doesn't like remaining still for so long. He doesn't mention to Axel and Leif that he didn't manage to kill anyone today. His first battle, and nothing to show for it but a deep cut on his arm and a few missing feathers.

Come again? A colony? If any land is given, it's not going to be out of Empyre lands this time, like Avalon. No, no, if anything ships should be sent, with angaris on board to track the enemy back to their home, so they can return the favor. And by the way, why didn't the fish folks warn us about these people anyway? Theron continues to wait where he is.

With so many of the telepathically gifted Najada unconscious it is only fair that the weary Atlanteans leave their blocks from their mysterious counterparts. Izak being one of those who is freed from this deadly grip, though those who are still deemed dangerous by the inhabitants of the Korallion aren't among those who are freed from this impenetrable shield.

Okalani relaxes now that many of the ties held by her are shattered, though the visionary's mind is, naturally, considered to be one of those who need to be controlled.

The Delphites shuffle on the wall and a stray vine or two contracts as the more trigger-happy elemental/shapers become nervous.

Thorvald looks around, quietly. His friends, his countrymen, his allies. "This one," he says, looking to Cyrene, "she is of my blood." Perhaps not literally, but close. His eyes also rest on Izak, and Katya. "Those two, have a greater purpose, I believe. It is not good for them to die like this." He's not sure if Niherlas is offering to heal them, or end their misery, but either way, he'd accept it. "Do you offer healing?" He looks down to Niamh, consideringly. "We would not attack the land of the Tower," he says. "Magic is too precious. There are other assurances to give, but our word will serve."

A loud bark of pain, Axel sneers up at Hafeez. "Weakling bastard, stab your eye." He curses at the Varati near him, though smiles as he does. He'll snatch out at the man's ankles, just to be contrary.

Sven looks up belatedly to notice that attack on Axel by Hafeez. "Hey! Swine! Dirt-eater! Your mother was a rabid she-dog! Come back here and I'll... I'll..." Stab him in the foot? Sven seems hell-bent on trying. He starts flapping his wings and wriggling closer to Axel and Hafeez, darting out a wild slash with his dagger toward the Varati.

Leif throws some filthy snow at Hafeez, "You'll be the first to die, dog!" Do these strange ones have no sense of honor at all?

Niherlas nods, then raises his voice, "Commander! Adept Starsong should be at the gate! Ask her to come out, and go to that woman," he motions to Cyrene, the one that Thorvald had indicated first.

Seeing Hafeez move in among the captured invaders, one of the Hounds with a Reeve's badge moves forward, "Hey, Varati, move off now. You did your damage already." The Hound glares at Axel and might well kick him too, but Hafeez is where he's not supposed to be.

A shadow stirs far overhead, a being of pure black accented by the day's bright sun. Slowly, this being of darkness descends, flying low and lazy loops over the carnage. With a careful eye, Kallisto, the self-proclaimed Dark Prince, surveys the battleground.

Thorvald motions to all those who are critically wounded.

Sneering, "Fools. I shall laugh, as will the God and King when they come to destroy your precious city again and we shall sit away from you all and watch the rivers of your blood flow." Sumai speaks to them all. "Make peace with your enemy so that he may slide the blade silently into your belly instead of dying like men worthy of having breathed," the huge Messala says and stares at anyone who will look at him. He, and his remaining guardsmen, turn and make their way back towards the northern end of the city where they 'belong.'

Cyrene exhales a soft sigh and moves to the edge of the ledge she stands upon, sitting down and slipping to the ground several feet below, leaving her sister behind. She staggers, but remains upright, appearing more pale than even a Rusalka should from bloodloss and magical exhaustion.

Right, the word of raiders who come in and attack, and they're supposed to trust? Hmmm-mmm. Do the Varati have honor, none at all, but that's beside the point, we're talking about the invaders now. The Imperator wonders if we could speed this along, so that Thorvald will release Drusus, and someone can see to the Emperor's health as well. He doesn't look so good.

Niherlas nods to Starsong as she comes out, "The woman there," he says to her, motioning to Cyrene, "Would you tend to her, please, Starsong?"

"Shut your face, chicken wing!" In self-defense this time, Hafeez slashes at Axel, then at the other one too foolish to interfere, coming away with only a nick at his ankle, the leather too thick to be penetrated by anything less than a full blow. Look at that, he was wearing armor after all... The large Varati chuckles at the Reeve approaching him, finding him rather funny. Even pats him on the shoulder with the flat of his falcare, "Sir!" He mocks, then raises the blade to his forehead, and walks away, continuously shaking his head. Such a sad show of force...

Seeing the exchange of blows, Kallisto drops himself inconspicuously onto an overlooking rooftop. Swiftly, he draws his bow, knocking a shaft, and waits.

A wary look at the one who chases off the Varati. "Thank you, beardless wonder." There's amusement in his voice. Axel looks from Leif to Sven. "Logi is having a good one today, no? We come looking for gold and cattle and we find a myth made real. Yet here we sit in the mud like children." A laugh from the odd-looking Empyrean. "Crazy bastards." Referring, of course, to the gods.

The Delphites look on nervously, prepared to start the magic again if anyone attacks anyone else beyond a little shuffling. More vines tighten as the magic slips around in the Delphite's grasps.

Niamh turns to watch the Adept healer emerge and go to the fallen woman. He then follows Starsong, keeping an eye on Thorvald, his hostage, and Niherlas. "Let me know if you need it warmer, Adept..." To show that they are willing to help... with reciprocations.

Safe in the shelter of Caioma's protective presence, a small, slight Sylvan girl pushes her way through the chaos of snow and blood and battle. Bewildered green eyes peer around with quick, darting glances, until Starsong spies Niherlas, and her face visibly relaxes -- well, as much as she can relax, amid the chaos.

With quick steps, the girl heads towards her new goal -- accepting Niherlas's instructions, and Niamh's close presence, she heads towards the mysterious woman. Her eyes flutter wider in astonishment as she takes in her patient's unfamiliar features -- but still, she kneels next to Cyrene, extending a steady hand to place on the woman's forehead. "It's all right," she murmurs. "I'm a healer." Can the patient even understand her? Starsong doesn't' know, can't know, but she speaks the words all the same.

Thorvald stands there like stone, keeping his grip on his hostage, and waiting for those with mortal wounds to be tended.

Keeping pace with Starsong, Caioma will guard the girl as she makes her way amongst the carnage towards the wounded. The half-breed keeps her sword at the ready, watching all those still held securely amongst the mud and vines.

Oh so funny, Varati, get a new insult next time. Let's get going on to the part where we get the Emperor back so that -he- can be healed. The Imperator lets his gaze sweep the battle field. All that work he did to build up the legions here, wiped out. He'll have to start again. He's not certain the Nest or the Empyre can afford to lose the number of men they do.

Cyrene looks at Starsong and the others approaching uneasily, but the limited extent of her telepathy allows her to sense the woman's intent, and the body-language speaks out as well. She holds still, holding out her right arm, which bears a deep gash from elbow nigh to her wrist. It has mostly scabbed over, but by the way she weaves she's exhausted and has lost much blood.

Sven is getting more and more impatient with being trussed up like a hog by those entwining plants holding him down, and the mud sucking at his wrists and ankles. His wings flap fretfully, and the boy shoots baleful glances at his 'captors.' Let me up, that sullen glare seems to demand, of anyone who happens to glance in his direction.

"There. We heal one dear to you. Her life was in our hands, and we return it." Niherlas pauses a moment to let Thorvald absorb that, "We can speak only for the city of the Tower. There are other lands that surround this place, and we cannot speak for them. But free that one," Niherlas motions to Drusus, "and the Tower will make peace with you and yours." The alternative is left unspoken.

Protective of her sister, Liolya hovers beside Cyrene, glaring at Starsong and Caioma with distrusting eyes that seem more appropriate to a seal than a humanoid. She'll do as Thorvald is instructing, but she won't like it.

All at once, Drusus awakens. It isn't the slow, groggy, fluttering-of-eyelids kind of awakening. He's wide awake in an instant. He can't see Niherlas or Niamh, his vision limited to a slice of the sky, but he is aware that he is being tightly held. His hands go up to pull away the arm and his wings bate violently. But his fingers are frozen -- they slip. And his wings were battered by the vicious windstorm thrown at him by the two sisters -- they can't unfurl properly.

Too much blood -- can't breathe -- he feels fire as the knife bites into his neck, driven to cut the skin by his own struggling. The air comes alive around Thorvald, compressing him as if he were enclosed in a massive fist.

A few of the Delphites seem to want the alternative and are not beyond shouting down to the crowd.

Leif finds the time now to inspect his own wounds... yes, he will have scars from this battle. The thought brings another painful smile to his face. Hopefully Axel is right... the women will flock to one with scars.

Axel flutters his own wings, slightly damaged by the fight with the Varati at the last. He glances toward Sven with a smile. Just be patient and let the talk go as it will. His own arm isn't that bad, but he does go about making a temporary bandage by cutting off a strip of cloth from his coat and tying it tightly. This may take a while.

Thorvald switches grips as the air thickens around him, flipping the knife a quarter turn so that the blade no longer presses against his neck. Can't have the hostage kill himself, now. Instead, Thorvald presses a finger into Drusus' carotid artery: a blood choke. It'll knock him out again, but not kill. Or even harm the man, as Thorvald isn't holding the choke that long. He'd reply to Niherlas, but he's a little busy right now.

Seif runs in from the direction of the Town Garden, looking around frantically, trying to take in the scene. The young Varati purist follows adroitly in the footsteps of his traitor father -- always seeming to be in the middle of all of Haven's troubles.

Gggggk! Good night, Drusus. The Emperor goes limp.

Starsong's touch is nothing but gentle, and the concern of a healer for her patient soon overrides the fear that a young girl feels for a strange being. "Shhh... it's all right..." she murmurs. A careful hand runs down the length of the gash, sending tiny soothing swirls into Cyrene's arm to relieve the old, lingering pain. And then another pass, closing torn skin and muscle, sealing the cut over with new, healthy skin. And then the Sylvan girl leans over once more, sending a new wave of aether into the injured stranger... invigorating, restoring.

And then it is over, and Starsong sits up, withdrawing her hands to the warmth of her fur cloak, leaning back into the warmer circle of Niamh's presence. "There. Done," she says, her voice still so soft that it hardly carries beyond the little circle of healer and patient and attendants. Amazingly, the girl even manages a thin smile, encouraging, through all the distress and chaos. "How does that feel?"

Thorvald nods, and looks to Niherlas. "I will release him," he says, "with your word that my people will be safe." Pale eyes scan the crowd. "There are many soldiers here," he says, "many armies. Can you speak for al here, that we will be allowed to go?"

Theron steps forward at the sign that Drusus is conscious and awake, well, right up until the big guy makes the Emperor go limp. All right. Not so bad -- hold on, Niherlas, you answer yes, and you're in mighty big trouble. The Imperator will speak for the Empyre, since someone sent his Schola away and managed to get captured.

Niamh takes a step forward, even though he cannot fly to stand with Niherlas. What sort of honor code do these strange Empyrean-like ones have? Do they believe in 'An Eye for an Eye?' "We speak to the best of our capabilities. We cannot control everyone, but all shall know that you and your people are free to go." Once they have Drusus, of course.

Kallisto hears all of this, from his vantage above. His face sets in cold lines, and he contemplates sending a shaft through Thorvald's neck. Quickly, he sends questioning glances throughout the Rialto, and whistles quietly. Any nearby soldiers would now recognize his presence.

Riva takes the block that Okalani has established and using the methods shown her, helps hold it,

Sven watches Axel begin tending to his wounds as best he can, and so the youth follows suit. He grips the sleeve of his sark in his teeth and rips, making little 'rrrf' noises as he does so, like a meddlesome puppy with a chew-toy. Once his forearm is bared, he can see more of the injury that Jenner's trident caused, and his grey-green eyes widen. His first battle-injury. The pain has dulled to a throbbing ache by now, and the boy stares at the laceration with all the morbid fascination of one picking at a scab. Maybe he can show it to Svala. She might be impressed.

Thorvald eases his grip on Drusus, backing the dagger away from his neck. He sets the Emperor gently down on the rooftop, and steps away from him to let Niherlas retrieve the man. "Then tell them," he says.

Thorvald addresses those on the ground. "I have traded that man's life, for our freedom. The mages of the Tower have agreed to it."

Kallisto calls loudly, "Niherlas!" hoping to grab the man's attention. He has an arrow trained on the enemy, and is atop a rooftop almost exactly opposite the Rialto from the one Thorvald and the Emperor are on.

Leif cannot see the wound on his face, but he can feel at it. It's painful, but it missed his eyes, ears, and nose, mostly following his jawline. His beard may cover it when it grows longer. The wound on his leg is a little more serious, being deeper. But he should still be able to walk on it.

Dark eyes struggle to open as Vladimir tightly grips to the last shreds of his consciousness. He watches the Aesir chieftain warily and isn't sure which he desires more; to simply die where he lies and let Vodyanoi take him, or risk the promise of these southerners. He grumbles something under his breath for the Najada nearest him.

Hearing a shout over the mumbled hush of the Rialto as people strain to hear Niherlas and Thorvald, Caioma's gaze shoots up and narrows as she spies Kallisto. Hissing under her breath, she gestures to several Hounds. One of them is an Atlantean that blinks and frowns. He gestures to two Empyrean Hounds who immediately take off and fly towards Kallisto. They don't look happy.

Both Izak and Katya lay motionless on the ground, though by now the blood-flow has begun to slow. Chalk it up to the cold, or simple lowering of blood pressure. Those Najada who still cling to consciousness are not moving, ice-white skin blotched with wounds and blood. Dark blue eyes are wide and unfriendly upon their captors, yet they are not moving in any aggressive manner. Telepathic conversation is at a null, thanks to the effects of the other Atlanteans around them.

Cyrene nods to the healer, stepping back. But a frail hand points to the Najada on the ground, who need Starsong's assistance more than the Rusalka. Airy wings flare and fold again as Cyrene looks at her sister.

Niherlas moves forward to Drusus, examining the unconscious man only briefly before turning to the others throughout the Rialto, "These people have Haven's peace, we make a truce with them." he proclaims, "None shall accost them within the walls or waters of Haven, else they answer to Delphi. I am Estrel Niherlas Lyonikos Tritonides, and I speak as one of the Estrella of Delphi."

As soon as Emperor is released, the Imperator makes motions of retrieving the man, indicating the relatively uninjured types to ready themselves for flight. Drusus can put up with the indignity of being carried like a side of beef. If he has any objections, well, they'll come later, won't they? This would be an ideal moment to strike the leader, but somehow he might have known that the Hounds would prevent it.

Thorvald, strangely, doesn't seem too worried about Kallisto and his threat. Perhaps he's old friends with Death, and doesn't object too much to his coming. He listens to Niherlas, and waits. His part, it would seem, is done for now.

Kallisto ignores the rushing Hounds, wondering idly why we're negotiating with terrorists who ought to be dead.

Axel looks up at Thorvald, and hearing a shout from the opposite rooftop he narrows his eyes and looks for its source. Surely they are not that traitorous? To shoot a man during peace-talks? What kind of barbarians fill this city? He relaxes when he sees Hounds moving in that one's direction. Not that he could do much about it, mind you.

The two Empyrean Hounds interpose themselves between Kallisto and Thorvald, "Put away the weapon, boy! Or we'll toss you in jail just like the rest of the trash of this city." The Empyrean who speaks sneers at the man's dark plumage.

Glancing up at the shout, the Varati Estrel, Niamh, scowls deeper. How dare this man jeopardize the tenuous truce they just formed? Without warning, the dark Empyrean's bow and arrow burst into flame... hopefully, he drops it before it causes any serious burns.

Green eyes meet dark, as the wordless communication passes between healer and patient. Starsong does not need to hear a word, though, to know the condition of the two strangers in front of her. She only hesitates for a fraction of a second, eyes flickering between the two wounded and the one recently healed, before she nods, and turns to reach out to the one closer to her -- the woman. Again, her hand goes to the forehead of her patient, and her eyes lose their focus as she looks deep within.

The vines suddenly start to twist, and then reverse their unnatural growth, reverting to seeds and freeing their captives.

Kallisto drops the flaming bow... And considers pulling the concealed crossbow.

Among the small group of Atlanteans who've freed themselves, some nervous emotions are shared at the sight of the foolish Empyrean who is this close to shattering what the Estrella have managed to attain so far. Eyes in the hues of the ocean glance from one to the other as shoulders are pulled up, but weapons are no longer touched. A few glance down at the woman carried to the Mongrel Hound, one of the few left unscathed, who has since dropped into consciousness of a kind which leaves many of them concerned.

With a triumphant cry of freedom, Sven leaps to his feet, shaking off the last of those clinging vines as a dog would shake off water droplets. But his triumph is short-lived; he can pick up the air of tension that has settled over this strange, open market-place with its floor of stone and all its clustered buildings. Now that he's no longer distracted by battling, the boy takes a moment to stare at his surroundings with a sort of wide-eyed awe.

The Empyrean Hounds stay on Kallisto when he shows no sign of leaving. The one who hasn't spoke yet looks down towards Niamh and then back towards the dark-winged man, "Stay outta trouble now, y'hear?"

Axel finds his legs free of the vines and looks around for his axe... no, better not to use it as a prop. He stands himself up, his make-shift tourniquet soaking with blood. He offers his good hand to Leif to help his fellow up. A slight laugh at the bow turned yule-log. "It seems we live to fight another day. Othin will have to wait for us, hmm, boys?" Now, to look for his sister...

Kallisto frowns deeply, and glares at the surrounding Hounds. "It's a crime now, is it, to neutralize hostage situations involving one's Emperor?"

A few of the less powerful Delphites start to sway, and are held up by the more powerful mages. A few even start to faint from the use of magic.

Thorvald eyes each and every one of the Aesir in the crowd, starting with Sven. "No more weapons," he says. "Our battle is done for the day. Now, we look to the wounded." Thorvald eyes the tower before him, and he shakes his head. "The White Tower ..." He turns to Niherlas, and Niamh.

On the ground, Katya begins to stir as the Healing floods throughout her body, closing wounds and restoring lost blood. Yet she does not regain consciousness. Her wounds are so grievous that it will take only time and rest to heal completely, unless the Adept has a hidden reserve of strength. But the Najada woman will live, that much is certain.

Rolling his eyes, the one Empyrean Hound just shoots a dark look at Kallisto, muttering something about imbeciles under his breath. The other explains in the most neutral tone he can muster, "You almost bolluxed up the peace talk, boyo. Y'woulda gotten the Emperor killed is all."

Can we just get the Emperor out of there, please? The sooner Theron can manage that, the sooner he can come up with an explanation to the Aegis of how Drusus got himself caught. Slowly but steadily, that band of flying soldiers make their way to the abandoned Empyrean on the roof.

Leif takes the offered hand with a grunt as he lifts himself up onto his injured leg. But, if Axel can do it, so can he... and he, at least, has his hammer. "Thanks..." Limping over to Sven, he makes sure the younger one is all right before looking out to the others. "Funny-look' sort, eh?"

Niherlas releases a long-held breath. "Let us see the wounded -- all the wounded -- within Delphi," he asks the assembled warriors in the Rialto. "Those who are not wounded, please, help the others." With that he turns and kneels next to Drusus' form.

Caioma stays with Starsong, guarding the young Sylvan as she goes about her business of healing the wounds caused this day, some of them from Caioma's own blade. It might be noted that the Hound Commander is a touch more protective of Starsong than might be expected.

Kallisto glares at the Hound. "How is it getting the Emperor killed to remove his captor from the situation? It seems to me, that'd be making him live. Maybe I'm just stupid, though. The peace talks, in my mind, were nothing but negotiations to let the Emperor go. With the guy who's holding him dead... You can consider the man free. And I might remind you that peace talks aren't carried on at the points of daggers."

Not understanding half of what is said, Liolya just continues to cling to her sister's side. The stares they're getting now that the battle fury has faded are a bit disconcerting, and they set the Rusalka on edge.

Axel moves an arm around Leif's shoulder to help him. "Drop the hammer. We don't want to start something when we can't fight back, hmm?" He grins and Sven and claps him on the back once. "You're a man now... well, save for spreading a woman's legs. But all in due time." He's proud of his thrall. Even if his kills total zero.

Vladimir is awake enough to emit a growl as he is approached by the foreigners, but he has nothing left with which to strike out at them. The Delphi healers talk quietly to him in a language he doesn't understand; he simply shakes his head at him and closes his eyes and lets them work. They stabilize him enough on the street before carrying the pale Najada into Delphi so he may join the other invaders in the infirmary.

The rest of the chaos might as well not be raging anymore, for all that Starsong notices it. Her attention is focused entirely on the wounded people in front of her. One quick jerk pulls the pilum from the woman's chest, and an equally quick flood of aether stems the flow of blood.

Working with almost transcendent intensity, the Sylvan girl finishes attending to the woman, leaving her still-unconscious body with a soothing pat before shifting her attention to the other, less-seriously wounded of the strangers. Another quick tug to remove the pilum that impales him, and with equal speed, works to repair the torn flesh of his shoulder with her delicate flows of aether.

Less serious wounds fade and heal under the Sylvan girl's careful touch, until finally Starsong drops back from her third stranger-patient, with a slightly more breathless, "Done!" Only now does she lift her head to look about her, blinking green eyes quickly to pull her focus back to the outside world.

Giving Kallisto an incredulous look, the Hound barks a laugh, "Oh yeah. And y' a god with that bow I take it, boyo? That you'd be able to shoot down someone without hurtin' the Emperor. Whoo, that's a good one." Both Hounds start laughing before shaking their heads and ignoring the dark winged man.

Sven lifts his head as Thorvald speaks to his kinsman, and the youth gives a sharp nod to his Hoevding. Now is time to tend to the wounded and count the dead -- to see how many have been borne away to the vaunted halls of Othin's celestial home, where the mead flows freely and there are women a'plenty. Sven almost wishes he could have been chosen to join the warriors there. Almost. But there's still so much life to live.

Sven's canny, grey-green gaze takes in the men and women of the Rialto -- how strange they look! Some have wings, but many do not. And many of those who do not don't even have the gills or the color-shifting skin of the Najada. There is so much to see... maybe he'll just stare, while he sheathes his dagger and glances up with a blush of pride toward Axel.

Theron hates taking commands, even from an Empyrean member of Delphi. He motions Benedict over, and starts muttering about seeing to their wounded first. Like the one that fell over Vlad in a slump. But the first action is to get the Emperor out of there.

But... but it's his hammer! "D'ye think I'll get it back?" Leif leans in to ask. Before he gets an answer, however, he drops it with a sigh. Not understanding all the words that are spoken, his eyes do widen as many start to the White Tower. They're actually going in?

Thorvald walks towards the edge of the roof, and leaps off, wings spreading to break his fall. He lands near Liolya and Cyrene, and offers them both a hand. "Come, me help you. Then we will help the others. The Delphi promises peace and healing."

Kallisto puts the idiot Hounds out of his mind, and turns back to the scene. Carefully, he watches the Aesir and their apparent leader, Thorvald. When this all clears out, he'll offer his services to the man. This city has officially irked the assassin beyond redemption.

Cyrene accepts Thorvald's hand and clings tight to her sister with the other. Inhaling a deep breath, she peers up at the Tower hesitantly, wings flaring and folding reflexively before she follows into the infirmary.

With a twitch, Izak regains consciousness. The first thing he sees is not the golden halls of Vodyanoi's watery realm, but rather the face of a young Sylvan healer. Startled, mostly because he isn't dead, a hand whips up as if to seize the girl's throat. His voice is rough and grating, though rather weak, "Who are you! What are you doing!"

By now, all the damage done by the Delphic mages has been repaired, or is so close it doesn't matter.

Niherlas leans over the Emperor, examining the many cuts and lacerations, then lays his hands upon Drusus. The cuts close, the tears mend, the bruises bloom purple then fade to green and yellow before vanishing. There a longer moment while Niherlas holds his hands to Drusus' brow, before he finally takes his hands from the pale Empyrean's form.

Axel considers. "Mayhap. If not, we'll get you another." He's lost enough axes in his time to not be overly worried about it. Hearing the words of Thorvald, he walks that way, wings rustling, pinions dancing in anticipation. This should be entertaining.

Giving Thorvald a searching glance, Liolya nods. Taking a deep breath, the alien woman clings to her sister and lets the large Aesir guide them towards the gates of Delphi.

The Praetorians perch on roof near the Caducean and his valuable charge. Once the healing seems to be done, an Optio who still bears the marks of cuts and scratches, "We will take him now, Dominus." He makes a sign towards the pente to grab what part of Drusus they can.

Sven settles a curious gaze on Axel, then Leif -- and finally upon Thorvald, though he balks at the prospect of addressing his Hoevding directly. "We are going in there?" he asks, gesturing to the Citadel. "Are we their prisoners?" His eyes narrow, and he clarifies, "Slaves?" Evidently, he distrusts the word of these 'barbarians' surrounding himself and his clansmen.

A tiny, choked gasp bursts from Starsong as her patient's hand suddenly takes hold of her throat, and her eyes go wide, their twin circles mirroring the O of her astonished mouth. "No!" is all she can cry at first. "No -- I -- I'm here to help you!" she stammers, desperately, sitting still and frozen in the grasp of the stranger. "I'm a healer!"

Thorvald nods to Axel and Sven as he leads the two sisters over, closer to the Tower. "Forgive me?" he asks. "It seems Logi has played his cruellest trick this day." He looks towards Izak, "My fault," he says. "I ask you to forgive me, and will understand if you cannot." He shakes his head to Sven. "Perhaps, though I think not. They have sworn peace. I could not let us all die, and let knowledge of the Delphi die with us."

Niherlas looks up from where he kneels next to Drusus, and quirks an eyebrow. "After this, Optio, you call me Dominus?" He smiles, "I am Estrel." Starsong's cry, though, grabs his attention, and he rises with frightening quickness.

Leif thwacks lightly at Sven's head... they were injured enough today, "Didn't ye hear?" At least they're not too injured for some bantering.

Caioma growls and reaches out to bang Izak's head, hopefully knocking back into unconsciousness while keeping him alive to keep the Estrella happy. If she has to, she'll stick her sword in him to get him to let go of Starsong, but hopefully a good whack upside the head will do the trick.

Axel laughs at the batting of his thrall's head and his disbelief. "Step lively, Sven, you're going to be a legend. Our grandchildren's grandchildren will sing about this day." He hears the cry of the healer and his head swivels slowly. "By Sleipner's steaming shit!"

Dominus, Estrel. Whatever! You're an Empy who sides with Delphi over the Empyre, like you count. Sure, so you healed the Emperor, you're still one of them. The Optio gives Niherlas a look and hauls the Emperor away with the rest of his company. Skip going down, they'll lug him to the Hall of the Sky.

Niamh moves to help some of the wounded get into the Citadel for healing. Then, maybe he and some of the other fire-elementalists can get rid of some of the gore that is left in the marketplace.

Sven rubs his scalp ruefully as he's smacked upside the head by Leif. He shoots the older youth a disgruntled look. "But the rest of us?" He nods with his chin toward the beach, where presumably more of their number have fallen, and addresses Axel this time. "I could find them?" he offers hopefully. "The ones not dead..." Maybe it's just an excuse to go seek out Svala. Though he does puff up with pride at Axel's praise.

The Najada's leader never gets a chance to answer either the Adept or the Hound Commander. He's quite out like a light. Falling back with a thump, Izak goes still once more into the blood-covered snows.

Starsong's hands fly up, spreading out to circle her throat, covering the place where the stranger's hand was. For a moment, all the Sylvan girl can do is sit, staring with wide, hurt eyes at her patient, as the cold finally seeps through her layers of fur and wool wraps to send shivers running through her.

Axel shakes his head at Sven. "They'll all be brought in. You're wounded as well." As if knowing what worries the boy he winks and whispers, "And Svala is fine. Though after such a battle, she'll likely be randy as a goat in heat." Implying the youth might get to fulfill his crush if he's patient.

Thorvald walks over to Izak, and looks him over. Caioma is given a nod. "You fight well," he says, then turns to Starsong. "I will carry him in. Please forgive him, he expected to be with the gods."

The half-breed Hound regards Thorvald for a moment. The death of one of her men flashes through her mind, but then she remembers the men of his that she has killed this day. Caioma nods in return, "As do you." She'll stay by Starsong's side, but step back for Thor to pick up Izak.

Sven shoots a round-eyed look at Axel as he dogs the man's steps toward the towering white Citadel. He'd stare at it, if he weren't so distracted by the older Aesir's words. "Goat?" He gulps. That just conjures up a host of disturbing images. "I... I guess we'll find her later..." he mumbles eventually, wishing his freckled face would stop flushing with heat.

Leif actually looks about to see if the Rusalka he met not long ago is all right. He saw her briefly during the battle but not since. "C'mon..." he gives a friendly shove to the youth, "Yer keepin' us."

The sound of her own language coming from Thorvald seems to startle Starsong almost as much as his foreign appearance, and she draws back for a second, arms pulling in tight towards her sides as she lets out another sharp gasp. "I -- yes," is all she can manage to stammer, and slowly, as Caioma steps closer, she begins to lower her hands from their frantic clutching at her throat.

But let us not forget the other Najada who are lying about. Those who are conscious enough to have heard half of this conversation are wary, though they seem to accept the healing offered to them without a show of aggressive force. Yet they are not happy. Not at all. Katya -- the wife of Izak -- and his son Hedeon are soon taken into Delphi's infirmary. As for the Najskor himself, Izak is as limp as a rag doll. Thorvald will have no troubles taking him in. But Vodyanoi help everyone when he wakes up.

Thorvald kneels down, and easily picks up the large Najada chieftain. "It will be best if his wife is near him, when he awakens. And if she is obviously unhurt," he says.

Axel lo