Date: September 30, 1998
Place: Rugged Pass - Northern Mountains
Cast: Cepheus, Eranthe, Faisal (@emitting Achmed, Lais, and Rahman), Fath (@emitting general Varati patrols, Lais, Berk, and Kovar), Lysander, Stavros
Scene: Lysander and Eranthe, missing for almost two weeks now, have been steadily, and slowly, making their way through Varati territory toward Haven. This is the last leg of their journey, and the most dangerous part of it... but luckily for them, the Archon and Imperator have gone to look for them.

Rugged Pass - Northern Mountains:
      Chill winds spread a constant shushing through the thick stands of mountain hemlock and white pine whose warped trunks and drooping branches stand testament to the snows which must shape them during the winter months. The landscape here is rocky and the twin ruts which meander along the bottom of the sharp ravine look like they'd be a bouncy ride for even the best-crafted wagons.
      A weathered signpost sticks out like a lone sentry to the south, declaring a halfway point between Haven and the Varati city, Gamorah. This pass definitely sees quite a bit of traffic, for no grass grows where wagon wheels frequently roll over the stony earth.

The two fugitives, Eranthe and Lysander, are working through the last mile of Varati territory. Having just passed the first of the more widespread "sweeper" patrols, they now enter the heavily-patrolled border area. Though narrow, there are camps of Varati on either side of the course they have set, about equal distance from them. In the trees about halfway to the end of the patrolled area lie the two cloaked ones, waiting for something. There are obviously a few patrols in the area, working there way back and forth and stopping to talk at fairly regular intervals to share information and news.

Patrols. Lysander's eyes narrow as he spies the Varati warriors moving through the underbrush at various intervals and the smoke which rises from the fires of their camp. Placing his hand upon his weapon, he looks over his shoulder towards Eranthe and speaks in the softest tones, huddled in the shadow of a great oak, "The border is about an hour's walk that way." A quick glance is cast around again, "I don't know if we can make that walk without getting spotted. There are patrols everywhere here. We'll make a path zig-zag through there..." he motions towards a clump of thick underbrush ahead, "...if we are spotted I want you to run as fast as you can in the direction of the border. I'll do what I can to hold them back." His wings flutter a bit as he tests them, "I am strong enough to fly I believe.."..

The patrols back from the border are mostly sweepers, sent out on the off chance that an intruder got past the first line. Their attention is always focused toward the main source of threat, and slipping by them heading out of the lands they protect is not difficult even for the unskilled. They seem to be moving on parallel courses, staggered so that they cross the same area of the border in about ten-minute intervals, though perhaps ten-minutes run between the sets in a line to the border. Closer to the border, matters might change.

High in a tree, a distance away, a dark form rests. Still and motionless, it is shrouded completely in black. Even the Empyrean's wings are as dark as the tree trunk behind them, apparently covered in a light powder of soot and grime. Completely still, only the owls in the surrounding tree might easily know of his presence. Twenty-five yards away, a similar form occupies another tree. Hiding long enough to rest in peace unspotted is clearly their intention.

Eranthe crouches in the shadows that night provides, her eyes rather wide as she listens to Lysander. Glancing about, her gaze is directed by the man's motions and she nods slowly. Her shoulder hunch forward and she seems very small. This is so different from anything she is accustomed to. Battles and Varati; hiding and creeping--they are things that seem so exciting in stories. However, she is discovering that it is very different in reality. Very, very different.

Lysander motions to Eranthe with his hand and then moves nimbly across the forest floor towards the predetermined spot--the break he has seen in the Varati interval to slip by them. He waits till the Empyreal woman has joined him before continuing, his eyes watching the 'sweepers' as they work on the lines and patrol for stragglers. While he isn't stealth incarnate, he moves with enough silence and a light step which makes the fall of his foot upon the underbrush minimal. When Eranthe has joined him, he whispers even softer, "When I say 'when,' I want you to move for that spot there..." he motions with his finger towards a spot of underbrush which is past the Varati warrior's path. "Are you ready?" The Aegian's face is grim as he reaches down and draws out the long dagger strapped to his waist. Keeping it low and out of the night's light, his slim fingers grip it tightly in preparation.

Eranthe's eyebrows knit with worry as Lysander speaks and she unconsciously moves in as close to him as possible. She nods at his direction--Are you ready?--despite the fact that her heart is screaming: No! No! I'm not ready .. not at all!! She hardly breathes, fearing even the sound of air being softly drawn would be enough to alert the patrols to their presence. Chewing on her lower lip, her eyes dart about anxiously and she reaches out a trembling hand to give Lysander's arm a little squeeze. She's scared.

Closer to the border than either of the two Empyreans on the ground, alert eyes keep watch of the patrols which circle on the forest floor. Frequent glances are passed between the tree-bound Empyreans, the moon's light providing their only means of contact. Not unlike their winged brethren, the hawks, the two Empyreans simply watch those who are below with an odd scrutiny, making an occasional scan through the partings in the heavy forest canopy which span out to either side.

Once the guards have moved far enough past, Lysander speaks in a quick, almost demanding tone to Eranthe, "Now." He then turns his gaze in the direction of the Varati warriors and prepares to move after her in a swift, hurried fashion. The darkness works to conceal them, but Eranthe's unpracticed movements will play against them--be thankful that the warrior's eyes are mostly for the border. "Hurry..." The Aegian remains close behind as reassurance, and more if she decided to falter.

The patrol moves on slowly, not spotting the pair of stealthy Empyreans, or showing signs of anything amiss. Clear now of obvious patrols, the border lies not more then a mile ahead, through dense woods. There are sounds of camps off to either side, about the same distance from Lysander and Eranthe, and there are others moving in the thick underbrush ahead.

Eranthe starts slightly as Lysander gives her the go-ahead, her body shifting forward before a moment's hesitation sets in. Fear holds her still as paranoia warns her of the Varati soldier they can't see. The one that is just outside the corner of her eyes. However, she only pauses for a heartbeat or two before she forces herself into motion, moving as swiftly as she can to the spot Lysander has indicated. Whether or not she makes any noise, she doesn't know. All she can hear is the sound of her heart-pounding.

The patrol moves on, and is quickly out of sight.

The Aegian's eyes sweep the woods ahead of the pair of them--one mile to go. So much distance traversed and now there is but little left to walk. Yet these will be the most difficult. "There are two camps I can hear." Lysander whispers very softly, "There," eyes narrow, "...and there. The space for us to traverse between them isn't very large, and there'll be border guards. I don't believe we can sneak through, so I'll have to decoy them." Looking toward Eranthe, he places a hand on her shoulder, "Are you strong enough to run?"

Immediately to the fore of Eranthe and Lysander's path, shadowy figures become discernible standing amidst the trees. Not a breath of wind stirs the dark-colored haiks to betray them for Varati warriors, yet the shapes of the figures can be nothing else. One among them shifts, his head tilting to the side as the sounds of trampled grasses and brush reaches his ears. The figure turns. Moonlight glimmers off of what can only be a brigandine. The nightmarish, black figure steps forward, head scanning from side to side to catch sight of the noise's source.

One of the figures in the tree peers down at an approaching patrol. Watching it pass under his tree, he gives the other Empyrean a quick glance. Over the next few minutes, very slow motions happen as he takes the bow off of his shoulder and finds an arrow behind his back. The movements are almost noiseless, drowned by the tramping squad. He relaxes a little, the bow in his lap, but each passing patrol seems to worry Cepheus a little more.

Catching the look, the other treed figure offers a curt nod, his features hidden by the face-plate of his helm. His wings flex ever so slightly, as he draws the arbalist off his hip. A grim line is drawn from Stavros' lips as he waits to nock the heavy crossbow, until a twig is snapped by one of the patrols. His eyes narrow faintly, as yet another patrol passes beneath....

Decoy them? Eranthe shakes her head and reaches for the hand that rests on her shoulder. Her mouth moves over the word 'no' but she does not give it voice. Her eyes speak enough for her. She wants to be done with the woods and these Varati patrols. Looking at Lysander pleadingly, she motions to the small space between the two camps--just run with her.

The patrols move in an intricate pattern this close to the border; they try not to use the same path twice, and even the order of the members varies, yet the fleet one is always in the forefront of the squad. They do, however, manage to converge on the same spot as the other patrols regularly, and whispered words waft above the night's stillness for a few moments at each meeting.

The dark figure continues to approach the pair of fugitive Empyreans, apparently not having yet noted their presence. As the distance closes, the chiming scales of his brigandine can be heard, and the long length of a spear resting in his hand is apparent in the failing light of the moon.

Her eyes say it all, and Lysander focuses his own upon the soiled Empyrean noblewoman next to him, "We have no choice. Now listen to me. I want you to move there..." using his dagger, he points towards a small outcropping from a large tree. A patrol passes closer and he instantly quiets, drawing back deeper into the shadows as he plans. When their footfalls have passed, he breathes a sigh of relief and then begins again after giving a cursory gaze, "I want you to count to one hundred once you've gotten there, then make a break along that path..." he points towards a line which is his best guess as to the centerline between camps, "Run as fast as you can and do not look back, no matter what. Stay low and in the shadows. Do you hear me?" The Aegian seems adamant, "If all goes well, I'll join you on the other side of the border."

The encroaching Varati warrior, his features now visible, stops as the night wind carries a breath of Lysander's speech to his ears. The head flickers from side to side... the spear is readied. Achmed steps forward once again, this time with greater caution and care.

Yet his efforts are betrayed by a companion lingering in the depths of the forest, "Achmed?"

A combination of fear and sadness rides in Eranthe's features. And if things go badly...? She shifts her eyes off Lysander to sweep over to the points he's indicated, and she nods rather slowly. She shivers a moment, the shudder having nothing to do with any chill present in the air. Looking back to her companion, she chews on her lip worriedly as she reaches out to touch his arm. And then a voice. Close. She hunches down a bit more, her body going tense. What was that?

The Empyrean with the bow in his lap listens carefully to the distant steps and sounds of the woods--the crunching of the Varati soldiers, the seldom-heard rhythmic sounds of nature. Cepheus shifts just a little, knowing full well the next patrol won't pass by for at least a few minutes. Almost without noticing, the Archon notches the arrow in the bowstring. His eyes move toward the north, at the sound of the Varati name. Worry creeping over his features, he gives the other Empyrean a quick glance, but the majority of his attention is focused on the distant voice in the night.

The other tree-bound Empyrean meets the glance quietly, simply nodding. Now or never, his one-eyed gaze seems to say, burning from under his helmet. Holding up a single, leather-gauntleted finger, he indicates one. One shot. That's all we're going to get. Crouching down a bit more, Stavros levels the arbalist at his good eye's level, lips drawing into a scowl, as he prepares to take aim....

Lysander's eyes whirl in the direction of the twig-snap, his worst fears confirmed. He looks quickly back towards Eranthe and touches her arm, leaning close enough that not even the wind would carry what transpired between the two of them. Nodding once, he smiles a bit in reassurance, then reaches down to grab something off the forest floor. "On my mark." He speaks more audibly as he turns his attention towards a spot on the far side of a small clearing. Grim and determined, he takes aim with a fist-sized chunk of wood--aim at a direction far from the retreating pair. " ....Now..."And with that, he hurls the piece of wood through the air towards its destination in a clump of bushes about fifty feet away.

The stalking Varati warrior halts in his approach, but only long enough to hold up a hand at the inquiring companion behind him. The chore finished, Achmed steps toward where he perceives the source of the voice is from. With the cloak of night shrouding him, Achmed is a shadow among shadows, yet moving where none others do.

The piece of wood whirls silently through the air and then lands with a *THUD* in the underbrush. In this subversive silence, its enough to wake the dead.

Eranthe's mind is in a whirl, fear confusing her thoughts. There is a Varati soldier close by and coming closer. What? Now? Now? As the wood somersaults through the air and its landing breaks the relative silence, she looks at Lysander with impossibly wide eyes and hesitates for one... two... three heartbeats before she begins to move off in the direction he pointed out to her. She tries to move as quickly as she can; she tries to keep her steps as soft as possible. She is not accustomed to being stealthy...

Cepheus' head shoots up, toward the rather loud, distant noise. He has been sitting in this wretched tree long enough to know when something isn't right. Especially when that something is accompanied by hurried footsteps in the concealed Empyreans' general direction. He grips his bow tighter, legs shifting a little to possibly prepare for some action.

A deep scowl crosses the Imperator's features, his lips an inch away from drawing into a snarl. Crouching lower, he peers for a sign of activity, the point of the bolt on his arbalist leading his sight, ready to fire at a second's notice.

The shadowy figure of Achmed rises from the grasses and brush of the forest floor to whirl at the sound of the wood chunk crashing into the shrubbery not far away.

A pair of falcares leave their scabbards in a steely hiss as the same inquiring companion of Achmed's inquires again, "Achmed?" The owners of the falcares begin to make their way through the brush towards the lone Varati warrior whose attention is tugged away from the brush by the soft sounds of Eranthe's flight. His attention flickers towards the bush, then back in the direction of Eranthe, undecided in his course of action.

"Achmed?"

Now is the time. If he does not move, they will be wise to the Augustin noblewoman's flight. He must place a face to the sound of the footsteps. Then, without warning, the Aegian steps out from his hiding place and makes himself more than visible to the patrol. Lysander whisks out from behind the tree, another chunk of something in his hand--the shadows and trees provide cover from serious archer fire, his movements taking him in the opposite direction as the noblewoman flees. Turning, he plasters himself to a tree and hurls the chunk of wood in his hand at another section of the forest. He creates the illusion of greater numbers, or perhaps a preliminary invasion. Certainly enough distraction to allow the border guards to focus on him and the noises, rather than the willowy Empyrean who flees toward the border. Holding his knife in his hand, he readies for the assault he knows will come.

Eranthe makes it to the outcropping, bruised and battered feet nearly stumbling the whole way. Once there, she crouches down, laying a hand over her chest as if to quiet the heart that pounds beneath. Did they hear her? Was she seen? Not wishing to know, she squeezes her eyes shut and begins her silent count to one hundred.

A voice finally erupts from the shadowy figure of Achmed, who begins barking orders, "Rahman! There are sounds to your left (Eranthe's direction), find out what it is. Lais, follow me. Something is back here. I do not know what."

Abandoning stealth, Achmed and Lais trample through the underbrush toward the noise of Lysander's creation.

The noises in the forest let Cepheus know it is clearly time for action, and any shot he has is, unfortunately, obscured by the heavy canopy of the trees to the north. But in a quick motion, he swings his legs over the branch he was seated on. He falls about fifteen feet to the next large branch, his light armor making him drop like a stone. He slows his momentum with his now charcoal-colored wings, absorbing most of the rest with his legs. A faint grunt comes from the man, the leaves on the branch rustling. This faint noise is actually eclipsed by a moderately loud *crick* as he draws the heavy bowstring back a split-second later. A second or two passes as the Empyrean searches for a certain target in the distance. Surprisingly, he doesn't seem concerned about the closer running noise which has silenced. He seems to be waiting... as if almost uncertain, but perhaps he is just looking for a suitable target. His demeanor is calm, and his aim is stable.

Slipping down from the tree, Stavros seems to have the same idea that Cepheus does, hefting the arbalist up, to aim, as he silently drops down, his wings cushioning his fall. Creeping through the trees, he remains well within sight of the Archon, but looking for a better view, a more clear shot... his stance is somewhat crouched, mostly obscured by the bushes, as best he can be, and still get off a decent shot, when the time comes. And he's sure it will.

As Achmed and Lais approach him, Lysander remains pressed to the tree, his dagger at his side as he waits for them to draw close enough to make his shorter knife and speed an advantage. Eyes find the fleeing Eranthe, who luckily has gone quiet for the time being--successfully evading the second part of the Varati patrol. He closes his eyes and continues counting in his head, "Forty ..forty-one ..forty-two...." The dagger is gripped tighter as the two warriors close.

Rahman does as is bidden. His figure, no less powerful than Achmed's, tramples through the forest underbrush in the general direction of the outcropping. Upon nearing it, he slows. The warrior's head swivels at the forest around him, waiting for any noise to betray whatever may be nearby.

Achmed and Lais slow to a stalk as they near the vicinity of Lysander, still not having perceived the hiding Aegian. With signals of the hand, they split apart some ten meters and continue to advance, their heads swiveling to catch any sight of the owner of the noise.

62... 63... 64... With every number she counts, Eranthe could swear that her heart pounds just a little bit faster. She remains huddled within the shadows of the outcropping, remaining absolutely still and silent. 77... 78... Her eyes snap open and her mental counting stops as the sound of Achmed's barked orders and Rahman's footfalls touch her ears. Holding her breath, her whole body is held tense--like a coiled spring. Should she run now? What number was she on? What has happened to Lysander? Where is he? Her hesitation lingers as the Varati soldier moves closer.

Still the other two Varati are missing from sight, not exposing themselves from their hiding place in the bushes, yet watching intently all that passes.

Rahman actually becomes visible to Cepheus as he nears the outcropping. The tall Empyrean squints in the direction of the soldier, eyes locking on the man's form and ears locking onto his steps. He takes a deep inhalation, the last variations leaving Cepheus' hands. He pauses for one more second, the arrow leaving the Empyrean's bow with a firm *whap*. Before the arrow is even far away, the Empyrean has another arrow in front of him. But instead of notching it and redrawing, he steps back, up against the thick tree trunk behind him.

Rahman begins to slowly circle the outcropping, though his attention is directly away from it rather than towards it, expecting to find the source of the noise in the depths of the forest nearby rather than against the rock. The shadowed warrior, still not visible to Eranthe, inches nearer nonetheless. Yet the sound of Cepheus' bowstring jerks Rahman's attention from the forest around him. He turns, but only in time to catch the streaking arrow. The bolt sinks into his right chest, yet the steel brigandine prevents the shaft from plunging too deeply. The Varati warrior stumbles backward from the impact and falls to the forest floor... immediately before Eranthe.

About the same time that the Archon sees the other soldier, so does he come into the Imperator's view. With a nearly inaudible *click*, the bolt on the arbalist is loosed, his aim true... As it flies, he lets the crossbow swing to his side and draws the spear from his back. No time to reload...

The impact of Cepheus' shot knocks Rahman aside just enough to avoid the missile from Stavros. The prone Varati gasps and struggles to find his feet again, still not seeing the Empyreal female so nearby.

As before, Achmed and Lais continuing their stalking towards Lysander, his position still undiscovered. Achmed nears the tree providing the cover for the Aegian, his footsteps easily heard by Lysander.

"Seventy-nine..." Lysander draws in a deep breath, the grip on his weapon becoming bone-white, "Eighty..." And then without warning, the Aegian leaps forth from his hiding place with a blinding flash of wings and robe. From the shadows, he slashes at the approaching Lais who takes up the left flank. The noise of the bushes rustling is similarly loud as the falling of the wood-chunk, but the grunt and flashing of metal is far more audible. All this time to distract the Varati from their tasks--draw attention towards himself. Strangely, Lysander's blow isn't aimed to strike Lais, rather the shot flies far wide of its mark, but provides him enough distance to retreat beyond the range of their spears and longer weapons. The engagement has begun!

Eranthe claps a hand over her mouth, stifling a surprised cry as Rahman falls right before her. Forget one hundred... she's going now. She lifts to her feet and begins to run, a rabbit chased from the brush by hungry wolves. She doesn't look back, not once, and she can only hope that Lysander is doing all right. Every step is pain and her broken wing encumbers her flight...

The two hidden Varati warriors now stand from their place, the crash of arms bringing them to action. Berk the horn-blower lifts his horn to his lips as his companion draws his sword in one hand, and his dagger in the other.

There is no hesitation from Cepheus as he steps away from the tree and out of his cover. He raises the bow again, a slight hesitation of which target to choose. As Eranthe plummets toward him, he actually makes diagonal steps away from her. A moment later, clearly choosing the already faltering Varati nearby, he raises his bow, drawing back the arrow and letting another one fly. At this close range, the arrow's transit is short.

Charging forward, the Imperator seems to easily forget the missed shot, concentrating now on the sounds of battle ahead... Wings folded tightly against his back, he dashes through the trees with an agility that belies his age. The glint of the horn-blower's horn catches his eye, and he turns to drive the metal head of the spear into the back of the offending signaler, the banded nine-foot haft hopefully giving him enough reach to do so.

Rahman's eyes go wide at the sight of the Empyreal woman before him. His throat forms words of warning, but a choking eclipses them. He struggles to his feet despite the shaft jutting sickeningly from his right breast. Finally he finds his voice, soft at first, "Empy... Empyreans..." then louder, "Empyreans!" With a lumbering stride, hampered severely by the wound, he tries to pursue the fleeing Augustin daughter. His advance is halted by the discovery of the Archon. Rahman growls as he bares his falcare and begins to close the distance.

Cepheus' arrow finds his chest once again and sends the Varati once more to the ground, another shaft jutting from his left breast, yet deeper. Coughing and sputtering, Rahman makes pained efforts to rise.

Startled by Lysander's false attack, Lais pounces back and whips his blade into a defensive guard. Seeing the Aegian's knife blade pass by harmlessly, Lais sneers coldly and pounces forward to engage the Empyrean with a horizontal slash at his midsection... a stretch at this distance, but possible nonetheless.

Seeing the confrontation, Achmed rips through the forest underbrush to close the distance on Lysander.

Berk starts a blast on the horn, sound echoing trough the quiet woods. However, it is short-lived, and incomplete as the spear literally slides trough him.

His companion, seeing this happen, does the most unexpected thing for a Varati fighter--he turns tail, and starts to bolt.

The blade arcs downwards towards the Aegian, and indeed it is a stretch, but the Varati is a fine warrior and the metal slices a portion of the already torn chiton, perhaps drawing blood beneath. In the darkness it is hard to tell. Lysander grimaces and rotates the blade once in his hand, but does not engage the two guardsmen--rather he uses his superior speed and agility to literally dance away from the two, placing a tree between he and his attackers. The crashing underbrush heralds Achmed's closing and the Empyrean's eyes take note of that, "Come..." he motions with his knife, "Come and get me."

Pure-white terror has control of Eranthe's senses--the details of her surroundings nothing more than a blur. In the darkness of her flight, she cannot discern between friend or foe. Cepheus steps away from the tree that had provided his cover, but, in her eyes, he is only a dark shape. A threat. A soft cry is choked off as she changes direction, veering off at an angle instead of remaining on a straight course. Her feet slip a bit beneath her and, although she is able to avoid falling and manages to keep her momentum, the stumble creates some more noise.

A growl comes from the Empyrean as Cepheus drops his bow and draws his sword with his right hand. From his front, he also draws a short, jagged blade which he holds so it runs along his left arm. Taking note only where Eranthe stumbles off to, he flexes his legs. In a half- leap, half-flight maneuver, the Empyrean lunges toward the downed Varati a few meters away. The moonlight glints off his blades as he bares down and intends to strike for the kill.

Stavros curses quietly under his breath. About to drop the spear, he changes his mind, knowing he would have no shot in the darkness and the cover of the foliage. Instead, hoping in his heart, perhaps, that he would not reach his fellows in time. With a jerk, he pulls the spear from the fallen horn-blower's throat to race toward the sounds of battle ahead of him--toward Lysander and the two Varati with him, spear ready to strike the moment a Varati comes into view, and buckler ready to defend, for the same.

Kovar is off at a dead run, Not looking back and dodging about the trees as only one who knows them could, he starts bellowing at the top of his lungs, "FOE! INVASION! ATTACK!" and repeats while he is able.

Lais growls and pounces forward, thrusting his falcare forward in an effort to catch the barely-exposed side of the Aegian.

Achmed reaches the tree, and with his spear, he moves to the opposite side of Lais' attack, hoping to catch Lysander retreating his direction.

Rahman falters in his effort to rise and only manages to reach his knees when Cepheus descends upon him. With only a moment to stave off certain death, Rahman makes a bid to fell Cepheus with a swift, horizontal slash at his legs.

As the sounds of dying Varati emerge around him, Lysander's face takes on a bit of puzzlement. With a quick glance, he takes in the rest of the forest around him, just in time to see Stavros crashing through the brush armed with that giant, bloody spear, "Stavros?!" The Aegian's voice sounds bewildered and almost confused. However, he has little time to worry about the arrival of a 'friendly' face, as the Varati are bearing down upon him--only a tree and a prayer separate him from certain death (again) on the edge of a weapon. The two try to flank him again, and as if playing tag, he uses his speed and wings to keep the distance from those spears. Were he to close, their superior weapons would make short work of his dagger and politician's fighting hand.

Eranthe's heart is pounding in her ears, the sound drowning out everything else as she races along the small stretch of land between the two camps. She moves as fast as she can, bushes slapping at her legs when she runs by. Her flight is not a pretty one--the young woman stumbling over rocks, branches and even her own feet. But desperation keeps her moving and fear drives her forward.

Kovar's efforts seem to be getting a response--there is the sound of a horn in one of the camps, calling out into the night in firm tones.

The sheer momentum of Cepheus' sword in his hand gives the weapon more than enough force to drive itself deep into Rahman. Definitely deep enough to finish the dying Varati off. The Varati's last attempt does make a mark though, as Cepheus' momentum also forces him to land on the ground. In that split-second, the Varati's swing catches him in the left greave. There is a loud *clank* as metal hits metal, the sword striking one of the retainers on the greave. Cepheus growls audibly, knocked off his feet. He hits the ground with a loud *thud*, rolling immediately over into a defensive position. But it is clearly not needed. He quickly sits up and looks around for Eranthe.

Moving quickly, without glancing toward Lysander, the Praetorian Imperator takes a swift stab at one of the Varati spear-men--whomever would be closer, without hesitation, to try to assist the Aegian and draw off one of the attackers.

The approach of the Imperator is not lost upon Lais, who abandons his attack on the Aegian to turn and engage the Praetor. Lais narrowly steps aside from the thrust and whips his falcare around to send it smashing at the spear shaft, as if to shatter it.

Achmed, still engaged with the elusive target of the Aegian, hefts his spear and hurls it like a thunderbolt at Lysander.

The spear flies through the air with a swift motion, arcing directly for Lysander's mid-section. The Aegian twists to the side, but having wings can be a disadvantage--the spear contacts his wing as he dodges and sends him rocked back against a heavy oaken tree. Like Christ on the cross, the spear holds his wing to the tree like some kind of trap. A soft *oof* escapes the elderly Empyrean's lips, but the sound of the charging Achmed quickly brings him around as he reaches over to wrest the shaft from its impact point with much pain. The dagger still remains gripped in his off-hand, face tense and teeth gritting.

Eranthe has opened up a bit of a distance between herself and Cepheus, unknowingly racing away from an ally. All right, racing is perhaps the wrong word to describe her movements. Shuffling, stumbling, limping... take your pick. Her feet are basically raw, having trudged down through the woods from the battlefield at Canyon Pass little more than barefoot, and they keep her speed in check now. No care is taken any longer, silence abandoned in favor of the quickest flight possible. With any luck, she'll get past the two camps before any of the soldiers realize what's going on.

All around now are the sounds of horns, responding to the call of the first. Though quiet, it is obvious that the border is coming to life. Varati wake and take positions--patrols now run through the underbrush--yet still none come near enough to be drawn to the battle, nor in fact seem likely to for at least a few minutes.

With a start, and the crack of wood, the haft of the long spear is splintered by the attack upon it, breaking between two of the bands. Dropping the spear from one hand, Stavros carries the motion around, rolling along the broken spear toward Lais. He draws and swings his iron gladius in one smooth motion, using his momentum to try to drive home in a powerful thrust--his wings flaring to aid in his short flight towards the Varati.

The Hound spots the fleeing Eranthe, but first looks to see how Stavros is doing. He wrinkles his nose at the scene, jumping quickly up. In an almost vicious motion, he yanks the sword from the recently-deceased Rahman. Cepheus growls--this is clearly taking too long. He turns away from the battle with the two remaining Varati, taking off a breakneck speed toward the fleeing Eranthe. The Empyrean actually leaves the ground, shooting through the trees like some frightening apparition. Or perhaps a bird of prey after its target.

Lais does not even seem to think about blocking the blow with his blade, only with his body as his sword arcs towards Stavros' unarmed side, praying that a counter will draw off the blow that he knows must land.

Achmed almost smiles as turns aside from Lysander's thrust, his gladius scraping along the brigandine's steely scales. The large warrior unwinds with a vicious backhand at the Aegian's head before reaching for his falcare to finish the Empyrean before him.

No time to try another strike with his dagger--it is futile against the armor of the Varati. Gritting his teeth, Lysander tries something a bit unorthodox. Placing one hand on the metal section of the spear stuck in his wing, he whirls around with the other half of his body and slices clean through the wooden shaft of the spear at a slight angle. Then with all his might, he tugs the metal part free from the tree and lunges at the charging Achmed with all his force, trying to drive the wood through the mail where his dagger failed miserably.

Eranthe continues to flee, drawing breath in ragged pulls. However, the growing activity in the camps frighten her, so much so that she stops dead in her tracks. Dropping down, she hides close to some bushes. He told her not to stop but... but... she's so scared that she can't think. Can't... think. She presses her hands over her ears and closes her eyes as if in cutting off the sights and sounds around her will remove the threat. Think .. think ... can't .. think ...

Just like a bird of prey, Cepheus watches Eranthe and her attempt to hide. It is all rather futile, as a sharp angle bring the Hound down with a sharp noise less then a meter or so from the noblewoman. A sword still in his right hand, he sheathes the other blade and reaches for Eranthe. He seems almost afraid to speak in the current situation.

Turning with the force of the blow, Stavros' face contorts in pain as the blade glances across his side, the falcare biting underneath the ribs on his right side. With a shout, he drives the blade home, both hands barreling the edge of it forward, to make the shot as lethal as possible, and hopefully carry the Varati into his companion. His legs tense, from the pain, and to use as much power as the Imperator can possibly muster.

With his hand settled upon the hilt of his still-sheathed falcare, Achmed can do little but attempt to step away from the charging Empyrean. Even that proves futile as the spear digs into and through the brigandine to find the flesh of the Varati warrior's midsection beneath. The Varati stumbles back, nearly falling to the forest floor.

Lais takes the blow without sound--lethal it is--yet the scout is not made of weak stock. His free hand pulls a dagger in one last attempt to inflict wounds, and he strikes toward the Empyrean's sword arm... as if stinging the hand that killed him in petty revenge....

The woods echo with the first calls, Varati searching for the cause of the alarm. Fires burst to life in the camps, and riders can be heard to gallop off, distantly.

All she is aware of is someone's touch, no matter how hard she tries to just blot everything out. In blind defense, Eranthe swings up her arm to knock away the hand that is reaching for her, attempting to scramble to her feet in the same movement. Breath is caught in her throat and she tumbles forward with a soft, tired cry. She shouldn't have stopped; he told her to keep moving.

Thankfully the leather of the gauntlet takes most of the force of the blow to Stavros' arm, but that cannot possibly stop it completely, nor does it, as it bites into the muscle beneath. Growling in pain, Stavros wrenches his arm back, drawing the sword with it as he brings up a booted foot to push the wounded Lais away from him.

Lais falls to the ground, staring up at the man who has killed him. Yet he is not dead... not yet, and he whispers softly, "I... seen you... 'fore."

With a great grunt, the Aegian forces the spear-shaft into the Varati warrior, his voice finishing with something of a triumphant shout--not seeming caring who he alerts, for the warning has already been sounded. He just stares at the body as it keels over, "I am so tired of bleeding." His face is a mask of anger and disgust, and he spits on Achmed as his blood fountains all over the forest floor. The sounds of others approaching gather Lysander's attention and he whirls to look at Stavros as the Imperator finishes Lais, "We must go, Stavros. The alarm has been sounded!" Looking at his wing, "I am uncertain if I can fly like this." Shaking his head, he tries to flap the appendage regardless of the pain. "Eranthe..." he suddenly realizes that she still flees through the woods, "Stavros, have you seen her?!"

All those years of handling graisha and mongrels make the Archon quick to get ahold of Eranthe. Struggling or not, the Hound grabs the young woman by the waist, saying only, "Domina... it's a friend." It is said firmly, but quietly, arms not about to let the young woman escape.

Ignoring the fallen Lais, Stavros moves quickly to Lysander's side, using his good arm to help the man stand more properly. "Come on, Lysander, we have got to get out of here... the Archon is here as well. I assume he is with her..." he states breathlessly, holding his side with the wounded arm--more worried about his ribs than his forearm.

The Aegian's eyes search for a moment longer until he nods almost absently, "She is with the Archon." Lysander says that as if to reassure himself of that fact. Looking up, he hefts his wounded, tired frame skyward. His wing streams blood, but in the face of being swarmed by Varati regulars, it seems a fair price to pay. With the Imperator's aid, both wounded Empyreans are soon aloft and making their way through the treeline towards the sky.

Instinct calls for her to struggle before comprehension catches up with her. However, she is slight and her flailing does little to loosen Cepheus' hold on her. Then, the sight of his darkened wings and the sound of his words gain control of her consciousness. Eranthe goes still and actually moves in a bit closer... despite how dirty and smelly he is. She wouldn't trade him for anyone in the world right now.

Cepheus actually smirks faintly to the young woman, sheathing his sword and turning around so he might get a better hold of her. Then, despite the brutality he inflicted only moments before, the Empyrean carefully sweeps her off her feet, minding the broken wing. He bends his knees, launching into a small clearing between trees and climbing quickly in altitude. With all the metal he is carrying, plus the weight of the woman, he is doing surprisingly well. He quickly turns southward towards Haven.

FIN  

[ Home | News | Staff | Players | Links | Gallery | Logs | Library | Updates | Mail ]
[ Connect to the Game ]