Fantasy To Grant Clemency [Closed; Rabbit and Jordan]

[Rabid_Rabbit]

If there had ever been a thing Morbo would call a great equalizer, it would be death. Its spectre was a long and chilling shadow cast over the everyday actions of man and beast alike. Watching the faces around the table, he saw long, hollow stares of men and women who were being faced with the reality of their situation.

Someone, or something was reaching deep, dark tendrils into the citadel of St Augustine Klemens, and was now belching a miasma of death into its streets. Previously, reports of infected people, their bodies twisted into unnatural shapes, their nightmarish forms thirsting to inflict suffering on others, had trickled in at rates of one every few months. Then, all of a sudden, they had become a torrent.

First, the people. Begging for help as their animals and livestock turned, became aggressive, killed the weak and struggling. Then nobles and merchants, describing servants, then family members, turning in their own opulent mansions. It was not until the university had sent scholars, their satchels loaded with observations, sketches and reports detailing the results of experiments, that the Hunters had decided they could stay silent no more. The wilful ignorance of the advisers, turning a blind eye and deaf ear to the plight of other nations, had meant to royal decree had yet to be mad. Not even acknowledgement, and it was time for something to be done.

“We have heard nothing, for a fortnight now,” the man speaking was a younger man, an archivist called Kashid. His brow was creased in a worried frown. “ We feel it is imperative to do something, lest the plague of Klemens cross borders.”

“Are you suggesting aggression ... or exploration?” Morbo felt the eyes on him. He had come back from the first report of infection within the limits of the kingdom of Ashson. He had understood, and taken it on, as a duty in his capacity as someone who stood as a direct relative to the King and Queen of Ashson. A relative who could lay no claim to the ties of blood being thicker than the bonds of the covenant - his repeated attempts to carry news to the King and Queen had been stonewalled by the coldly academic council surrounding them.

And oh! What he had seen at that first call for help. Don’t bring the guard! The letter had screamed in bold, capital letters, hastily scrawled and stuffed into the box on the carrier bird. Bring the hunters! Please help us! They had been right. The guard could do nothing, but the Hunters had come. Descending on the infected animals, felling them and then feeling the parts that still had the unnatural ability to get up and continue grasping for the living, untainted flesh around them.

“Exploration, at first - ” Kashid had said cautiously, only to be cut off by Morbo.

“RIDICULOUS, WHATEVER IS IN THERE WILL KILL A SCOUTING PARTY!”

Kashid narrowed his eyes. “Then you have volunteered to keep them safe, you insolent pest.”

-x-x-

And this was how, Morbo came to stand along the Bell Freeze ridge, a steep and treacherous, jutting path that wound its way down into the Citadel of St Augustine Klemens. The sun was setting, but he had wanted to see it once before they settled for the night. It was beautiful, still, even with an ominous lack of illumination, spires rising over the sheer, fortified walls. Surrounding the hulking mass of the citadel, Morbo could make out the beginnings of the town - a mere year ago, it had been expanding at an impressive clip, but now there was no light or movement in the valley.

A breeze twisted its way up through the trees, settling a clammy chill on Morbo’s cheeks. It ruffled his hair, tied back to keep its length off his face and out of keen, dark eyes set into a face washed out by a peaky complexion. Even though his role in this scouting had been largely relegated to shepherding the motley crew of barely-trained scouts. People who would not be too missed if they did not return whole ... or at all.

Morbo felt his shoulders twitch, unhappy about the stifling furs to keep the chill of late autumn out. “I find it strange there is no light,” He said - more to himself. He had wandered away from the campsite, to consider their strategy for the descent into the city limits the next day. “The whole city will be swallowed in darkness not two hours from now and already the darkness is ... very strong. Even the lights of the university are snuffed. It looks ... empty.” His skin crawled, considering what he would say to his companions of the observations, and how he would broach his suggestions with the actual leader of the scouting party - he had felt uncomfortable with her presence, sensitive to coolness and aloofness from others - while he was no stranger to it, he felt that it would make convincing her of any plan more difficult, and he cursed not bringing them with him to see the citadel in its harrowing stillness.

 

[Jordan-RP]

Elora made her way along the narrow, disused path that was carved into the mountainside. Guilt nagged at her for leaving the scouting party alone behind her. They needed someone to look to, to rely on, to give them the illusion of hope, but their hollow stares had only reminded her of the hopelessness of the situation they all found themselves in, and she hadn't the will to push through her own grief and be the leader they'd needed in that moment.
So she'd left them to stare wordlessly into their campfires, while she sought to sort through her own troubles.

Elora felt like she was drowning again, as if the suffocating waters were once again closing in around her, and the light from the surface grew fainter and fainter as she sunk deeper into the black. She forced herself to draw in a breath and look about her surroundings, in an effort to shake the growing sensation that sought to overwhelm her.
The mountains loomed overhead - they flanked either side of the valley - and seemed almost to be shifting beneath the sky, in an effort to swallow up what little sunlight remained of the waning day. She looked past them, to the clouds above; their edges streaked in a soft red light, but their beauty seemed too far away from her, so much so that she was left with a greater sadness than before.
Elora wondered how her life had been plunged into despair so quickly. How could she have been so sure, and so wrong at the same time?

She inwardly berated herself for dwelling on it, for feeling sorry for herself. She was responsible for the lives of the men and women behind her yet couldn't think of anyone but herself. But, a small voice inside her - one she'd thought silenced years before - asked: 'Why not?' Indeed, why not feel sorry for herself and wallow in self-pity for a while. It wouldn't change anything either way, isn't it easier to stop fighting it? There is a certain kind of comfort in surrendering to despair, even if it is a poisonous one.

Elora thought it just the wind at first, as she approached a twist in the ridge, but as she drew closer, she knew it to be a voice, a man's, though she couldn't make out the words. The realisation brought her out of her thoughts and into the present, a handful of possibilities flying through her head at once as she rounded the corner. She found an unreasonable sense of hope rising in her chest for the briefest of moments.
"Phillippe?" She called without thought, acting on instinct and blind faith. Her held breath deflated from her as soon as she recognised the figure standing on the path's edge, looking down over the city below. The Hunter turned and looked back to her, perplexed. She had thought him still back at camp with the others.
The sadness settled back over her heart again, snuffing out the embers she'd given life to moments before. She considered turning around and returning to camp, but she hadn't yet laid eyes on the city that now lay sprawled before her. Besides, she wasn't ready to look on the faces of those under her charge again, at least not yet.
Though the Hunter was technically under her authority, it was a thin line. They acted independently of the military for the most part. He was closer to a peer than a subordinate and probably didn't look to her for answers she couldn't give.

She gave an apologetic smile, brief and forced, born more from discomfort than any sense of kinship.
Stepping towards him, she said: "Sorry, I was thinking about..." She trailed off, realising how much of a fool she must seem.
"Morbo," She said slowly, confirming his name to herself. It wasn't natural on her tongue yet. She sounded as if she was about to say more, but hesitated.
She hadn't exchanged more than a passing word with him since they set out on their journey, didn't know the first thing about the man besides a couple of overheard rumours shared amongst the scouting party. How hadn't she taken the time to speak with him before now? Only doing so now, on the eve before they would enter the city. By accident no less.
No wonder the men and women at camp were so morose; she hadn't thought to speak to one of them, to learn more than their names, to develop any camaraderie. They'd simply followed her lead. Elora looked away from him shame-faced at the realisation, and stared down towards the city that lay in wait, ready to swallow them whole.

Her breath was visible in the chilled Autumn air that wrapped itself about the mountainside. Though it was not because she was warm - quite the opposite. Over the past five years or so, an Old Magic had been working it's purpose within her, changing her both inside and out.
Her touch was colder than it had any right to be, her complexion held the faintest blue hue - visible when the sun wasn't on her - and patches of her skin appeared like the morning thaw that crunched underfoot.
She appeared thinner and frailer than she truly was; her perpetually damp, fair hair hung limply to frame her small featured face. When the physical manifestations had first shown themselves, Elora had gone to great lengths to mask them, but over time they had slowly become more prominent and she could no longer hide the wetness that clung to her face, or the frosted, cracked skin that had spread across the side of her forehead, and up from her chest. The half-plate and gorget she wore covered the most prominent areas of the blight, but it did not do enough to hide it fully.

Elora had come to accept it simply because there was no alternative. True, it had granted her advantages other people did not have; while she was aware of the cold, it didn't effect her in the same way it once had; less a feeling, and more an acknowledgment. And though her lungs would fill with water the same as anyone's could, she would not drown from it, despite the agony she might feel.
There were powers even more magical in nature that she could tap into. But despite all of this, if given the chance, she would gladly have been rid of them all, to return to what she was before.
It had saved her life once, so perhaps it had the right to take it too.

She wiped at her brow, where the moisture had begun to bead. "I'd seen maps. Somehow I still expected to see a city. This looks like something dead." She looked to him and frowned a little, finding his odd features and sickly look to be decidedly off-putting. She offered another false smile, feeling guilty at judging him as undesirable already, she should know better, she who worried what others must thing of her abnormalities.

"I want to wait another day before we enter," She decided, "The morale is low, and we made good time. A day's rest would do them some good, I believe. We won't be breaking our orders by delaying a night. Perhaps we can have a feast? Kill one of the pack animals?" She didn't know why she was asking the Hunter. Was it because she doubted herself too much? Or because she wanted to dignify him in some way after putting him down in her own mind?
She held his gaze and raised a brow questioningly.

Elora felt some of the grief shed it's weight from her shoulders. She should have been focusing on this all along, on ways to encourage the group who'd been condemned to the same fate she had. She wondered what misfortune had prompted the man before her to be here, as she listened to his reply.

 

[Rabid_Rabbit]

Morbo heard a voice - so rarely used it felt unfamiliar to him - speak and he had turned around almost too quickly, as if he too were guilty of being so lost in thought his immediate surrounds had become alien to him. His brow knitted in a bemused frown - unlike the leader of their troupe, Morbo had taken time to consider and speak with most - if not all - of his troupe mates, and the name ‘Phillippe’ was not one he recognised amongst the men and women who had accompanied them.

His expression shifted from surprise, to the wandering ‘at attention’ his troupe mates gave her when she was commanding them, the not-quite-but-close insolence of hearing her words without absorbing them. Morbo had been a hardheaded man in the Fae conscript when he had been ... been back home.

The memory cut him like a knife, as the realisation he wasn’t back home, back with the fae armies. That his magic, his training was moot here, where magic was little more than a distrustful parlour trick to be hidden and loathed until it could be unleashed with enough force to raze armies. He had settled poorly, it seemed, into his life in Ashson if his thoughts turned so dark so quickly.

He pushed it down, seeing her discomfort and pounced. “Yes, Morbo.” He said, turning his head to look back down the valley. He craned his neck and some hair, long thick and black, poked out from beneath the collar of his thick furs. Morbo made no secret he was one of the heidim, the bloodline whose closest kin was said to be that of the reapers in the fae realm. It had manifested dramatically, and tragically, but he had avoided showing too much of himself - even when bathing and changing, he had hidden behind the packhorse, uncomfortable with his bare body.

The troupe had immediately become suspicious, with rumours raging behind palms and whispered amongst themselves. He can take a man’s soul just by touching them! His magic rots everything around him! He doesn’t hunt with weapons he points and the beasts fall! All false, but potent for breeding distrust.

“I’m glad to see you remember my name, if it took you a second try,” Morbo’s voice was ... dry. Not sarcastic, or loathing, as it perhaps could have been with his train of thought. It just sounded like a wry observation. He had smelled magic on her the first time he had stood to attention in the ranks in the training ring, and now he stood closer, he felt the tang on the back of his tongue.

“Oh, but it is a city,” Morbo said, looking down to the silent, darkening city. He had once heard that men with pregnant wives would often come to St Augustine Klemens. Because it was prosperous, there was always work ... it was always safe. The thought was dark to him, and he chose not to share it. “Look at it! Fields of crops, now untended, watchtowers ... unguarded! A whole university ...” he gestured to the grandiose building, hunkered into the side of the hill - a strategic move to build catacombs under the mountain, while the citadel sprawled over its top. “ ... people were here! But they are no longer, that is something I know somewhere, deep inside.”

No. He didn’t just feel it. The taste of death was overwhelming, almost suffocating to Morbo. It was intoxicating to him - like a fine wine that burned his throat and settled warm in his belly. Kin to death, he could feel it, he could taste it, he drew strength from it and it made him hunger for it. It had been powerful in the fae armies, where half-breed conscripts would be crucified on the battlefield so he could push the advance, using the violence of their deaths to cut a swathe through their enemies.

It had been a long, stretching silence as his thoughts turned over each other, before he realised she had been waiting for an answer. “They need ... they need a warm fire and a chance to look at the faces of the men they’re going with,” he said said finally, echoing her thoughts. He shrugged, his heavy shoulders rising and falling, the tenting, shifting lumps under his furs more obvious with the movement. Morbo would be glad to be free of his cloak soon. “I think this is a good plan. There are prey animals here, ones that may well be uninfected. I am happy to see what I may hunt here, instead of felling a pack animal ... some of the troops are ... attached ... to the animals, and it may serve to decrease morale.”

He paused, to let her mull over the thought, before he spoke again, the pragmatic thoughts of camp and dinner banishing his frosty attitude, if for a moment. It was replaced with curiosity. “Do you truly feel prepared to go in there?” He asked, sensing the despair. It felt like a probe for weakness, to pounce by a seemingly more senior fighter. “Some of those people back there are barely adults, much less soldiers.”

 

[Jordan-RP]

"There were..." Elora agreed as Morbo spoke of the city. "But a city is life and light, not..." She paused before adding in a softer voice, "Not this."

She listened to his suggestions on the camp and nodded along, but as he spoke, her eyes drifted towards the unnatural lumps under his furs and the thick hair that poked out. While she did not stare for long, she found herself very conscious of the shifting shapes beneath his furs, in the peripherals of her vision.
What Was He? This man who didn't react the way she expected, who at first glance seemed one thing, but on a second, something else.

"Then I'll organise a hunt tomorrow. It will help to have us all working together." She looked away; feeling as if she was staring, even though her pale-blue eyes had been deliberately fixed on his to keep her gaze from wandering.

“Do you truly feel prepared to go in there?” He asked.

Elora looked to him sharply, feeling it as a sting. "Yes." She answered. Far too quickly. Her brow pinched irritably. She heard how she sounded as soon as it left her mouth; defensive and hollow. She looked away once more, the air from her nostrils visible in the dying light of the evening.
Had he even been asking about her? His next words about their group being untested suggested he might not have been. It was too late now anyway, she thought. She'd already shown how she felt - it was clear she was lying.
Her next words didn't have any fight in them as she looked back to the city. "Not truly, no. I'd thought to have a hundred spears when we marched." She felt her cheeks flush, the colour showing through her chilled skin as she recalled the events that had brought her here. She looked up to the sky and drew in a breath, blinking back the sting of the tears that threatened to betray her resolve.
The hurt would probably never leave her, but right now it was as fresh as it ever would be.

She forced a steadiness into her voice that she didn't yet feel. "We have orders. I'll see them done. We all will." Simply saying the words allowed her to hold her head up a little higher, to raise her chin and meet his dark eyes.
Grief may have paralyzed her, but spite could be a powerful motivator if she made room for it. She imagined returning to Ashson, despite the odds they faced. To look into the eyes of those who'd deceived her. The thought showed itself as a bitter smile.
"They may not be tested, no. But let them taste victory once, and we'll find ourselves among soldiers."
She offered a more genuine smile. No doubt her despair would seek to suffocate her once more at a later date, but for now she had won some respite from it.

"I'm going to return to camp. Will you join me?" She wanted to inform the party of the change in plans, allow them to breath a little. Had she done this from the start, would they feel differently now? She couldn't dwell on it, for fear it would send her back into the misery of before. Looking back wouldn't help them, looking forward would, and she determined to do so now. To give them a chance, whether it real or imagined.

 

[Rabid_Rabbit]

Morbo’s gaze, dark and glinting, slid to Alora. So she thought her men and women capable? They might have been – Morbo saw them as having potential, if they were held together, dragged kicking and screaming into the brutal regimen of training. But he felt, Elora knew that, and he admired her front for making him question her true thoughts even for a brief second.

He did not smile back.

They looked over the valley again. Bell Freeze ridge was given its name for the way its shadow would cast a freezing darkness over the valley in the colder months. Even with the sky still paints its stunning palette of oranges and reds that faded into dusk to the East, the valley had gone dark. Morbo felt the freeze blasting off it, and he was … he was uncomfortable, unable to reconcile the citadel, bereft of the life that made the city before them.

“I will come in but a moment,” he finally said, roughly. His voice was choked a little, as if he were trying to suppress an unbidden memory. He was left to let his eye wander, and breathe in the sharp tang of death. It made him want to run, to do something great and explosive – there was much of it here, unused and fading away as the citadel would become a monument to dark, empty spaces that had once thrived.

-X-X-X-

Morbo had returned some time later, having meditated on their situation, their lives and what would happen to them in the citadel. He had filled his own mind with tales of horror. It refused to … the citadel was dark. He had said to himself. Normally, you would see at least a few stragglers – something that had lost its will to move and live meaningfully, that had once been human.

Morbo entered the campsite, emerging from the trees as a huge, irregular silhouette. He sat at the fire, carefully sharpening his axe – it was a curious weapon, capable of folding to become a cleaver with a wicked crescent blade, made of biting iron that raised blisters on Morbo’s knuckles when he held the blade as a cleaver, just from the proximity.

The scouting party had responded positively to the idea of postponing entering the citadel, and there were higher spirits. They had decided to set up a small sparring ring in the middle of the campsite, and the new recruits were sparring, laughing and joking. They encouraged Morbo to join – first with jeers that went ignored, then with genuine curiosity about how he fought – until now, they had only seen him spar with the intention of mimicking the training of Ashson’s armies.

“Look at him!” One recruit, a small, dark faced man called Davey piped up. “He’s huge! I want to see him fight! Tell you what, lets make it easy – if you defeat big Dawe, we will give you the jar o honey we got in our supplies! You fairies like that, hey?”

Morbo narrowed his eyes. He was still a fae, and honey was a prize amongst his people, worth more than gold. He wanted to join in the fun, but for the moment, it didn’t seem worthwhile. He wanted a better reason to spar. Something more challenging…

“Why Dawe? He’s bumbling, we’ve seen him try to swing his weapon a thousand times,” Morbo watched the giant man huff, but still smile in good faith. He was the only soldier to be issued a claymore – a left over that was so blunt it seemed worthless without ramming it through someone. “But you know who we haven’t seen fight once yet?”

A hush descended, and someone pointed to the blonde captain.

“Elora!” Morbo grinned. He knew it was a dangerous game. If she simply denied they would have to disband, and the rest of the fun for the night would be finished, but still. She hadn’t trained with them, she hadn’t been part of the intake – hell, had she carried a weapon? Morbo didn’t know – he had scarcely looked at her when he could have been looking to the forest … or the skies. “I don’t know if you’d spar for a honey pot, but you should do your men the honour of teaching us why you were appointed.”

 

[Jordan-RP]

Elora stood detached from the activity, contented to watch them spar and exchange bantering remarks. It was good to see them not so morose, but she couldn't help feeling dismayed after being reminded of their martial skill, or rather, lack of it. House Durand really had scraped the barrel for this mission...

She tried to reason out that they wouldn't be facing trained soldier inside the city, but a voice in the back of her head nagged at her; if they weren't formidable then why was there such fear surrounding this plague? Were those afflicted even the threat they faced, or was disease likely to claim them once they stepped inside? Had she known what they faced, that would be one thing, but as it stood, they knew nothing of the unknown that they were to march into.

She pursed her lips at the mocking tone some of them took with Morbo. Even if it wasn't malicious in nature. It felt personal on some level - a reflection of how people felt about anything that stood out as different.
Her curiosity was peaked however, as one of them named him a Fairy. Was it true? She'd read stories of their kind; fanciful and romantic usually. They'd been a favourite of hers as a child. He was certainly different, part of her had ascribed that to him being one of the Hunters, but he didn't deny it as he rose from the fire and moved into the sparring ring.

She was so lost in thought about it that it wasn't until Morbo called her name that she realised all eyes were on her.

She listened to his words, clenching her jaw at his implications. “I don’t know if you’d spar for a honey pot, but you should do your men the honour of teaching us why you were appointed.” He said.
Her pride over-road any truth there might be to what he said. Where did he get the nerve to call her out in-front of her own men and women, to back her into a corner like this?

"Captain Leblanc. Hunter." She corrected, for no other reason that to bite back at him. In informal settings she was not picky about petty things like that normally.

She swallowed her irritation and stepped further into the light. Her skin glistened in the firelight from the moisture that was about her face. Would they think it sweat - fear at the challenge he issued? She squashed the insecurity, but it took her longer than it should have to do so.

Elora knew she couldn't refuse his challenge. She would look weak and even more aloof than they must already see her as.
She was painfully aware of the silence that extended around the camp, as she considered how best to respond to his challenge. Was there a way to use it to her advantage? If she lost - which considering the tales that surrounded the Hunters, wouldn't be a great surprise - it would surely weaken her position. But perhaps all they needed was a good showing from her, a reason to put their trust in her. As she reasoned it out she realised Morbo had probably issued the challenge to give her just such an opportunity. Had her pride not been so sensitive, she might have seen it from the start.

"To the death then?" She said clearly over the silence. Inwardly she winced at the nervous looks her soldiers exchanged with each other. "That was a joke." The few obligatory, halfhearted laughs fell flat and sounded hollow to her ears. Had she been with the soldiers she'd commanded in years past, it would have gone down well. They'd known her, shared in the camaraderie common amongst soldiers. It was another reminder of her failures as a leader now.

"Tell you what. We'll fight for the honey. If you win, you keep it... But if I win, we share it amongst everyone." The suggestion was met with claps and jeers of support from those assembled. She felt a twinge of guilt at making Morbo out to be the 'enemy' even though it was only in a minor way. It would probably only serve to distance him further from them.
Not everyone is as insecure as you are. She reminded herself, before giving Morbo a friendly nod, in an effort to soften any blow dealt.
Her mother would approve of what she'd done. Now, even if she lost, she'd lose fighting for a token for her men. 'Small victories,' She would say, 'They rarely come without losers.' The soldier in Elora couldn't disagree with this, but the political circles her mother operated in were distasteful to Elora. Certainly, had she paid more attention to such things, she wouldn't have found herself here.

"You plan on fighting with that?" Elora asked with a frown. Morbo only nodded as he hefted the brutal looking poleaxe he'd been sharpening. She hesitated only a moment before removing her long sword from about her waist. "Very well. Hesha! My shield and spear." Hesha - a messy haired redhead with crooked teeth - obliged without much fuss, seeming eager to see the spectacle. She jogged in the direction of Elora's tent to fetch them.

It wasn't customary to spar with weapons such as the axe Morbo wielded, it wasn't considered civilised. A sword, or spear at a stretch, that was the limit of creativity allowed normally. If he insisted on bringing that into the ring, why not a morning star, a crossbow? How did he expect to effectively spar without decapitating someone? Elora wasn't one to back down from a challenge however - no true Ashson officer in her place would. The bravado was so intrinsic in their culture that it could easily be used against them - as Elora had witnessed first hand - but old habits weren't to be undone from one failure alone, no matter how catastrophic it may have been.

Elora gave a nod of thanks as Hesha returned. "Thank you." The girl offered a wiry grin in return - an expression she seemed to wear for everything - but as Elora thrust her arm through the arm loops of the shield, the icy chill of her hand brushing against Hesha's skin visibly unnerved the girl. She practically dropped the spear, leaving Elora to grab it before it fell to the floor. "Yes captain." She muttered and withdrew quickly to the rest of the recruits.

Elora turned to Morbo who stood waiting, casually evaluating her as he did so. His black eyes glinted in the firelight, only adding to the unnatural aura he exuded. Elora thought herself fortunate she wasn't facing him in earnest, he looked like a foe few would choose to go against, that soldiers would shy away from on the battlefield.
Elora had no such opinions about herself. Once, before this magic had taken hold of her, she had looked full of life and vigour, a shining example of what a warrior should look like. But her long flowing hair was now cut as short as custom allowed, just above the shoulders, and it clung to her thin face - damp and limp - giving the illusion that her armour was far too big for her.
Her armour was a set of half-plate coated in a powdered white, trimmed with a sky-blue and emblazoned with the Leblanc family crest. However the fact it was clearly well crafted and expensive, only made her out to be more of a pretender; as if she was wearing the armour of another, that she didn't belong in it.
Even her youthful skin was now was marred by icy corruption. She looked more akin to a fallen soldier left out in the snow for nature to claim, than she did a captain. Soldiers wanted a leader they could relate to, someone who would understand them, that they could look up to and trust with their lives. Elora had lost that the day she had been plunged into the watery depths of Lake Kothis.

The pair circled each other cautiously. Elora's spear flashed towards his throat with a pair of controlled, probing jabs which he evaded easily, grinning a knowing smile in the anticipation. Elora watched his footwork as she struck out, his creature-like movements easily carrying him just outside of her reach. His balance was steady, she'd hoped for some over-reaction, some weakness to hone in on but he didn't present any.

He turned his axe over, swapping his stance and grip as Elora shifted her own. The soldiers around them called out, jeering and laughing, wanting to see more action, unable to truly appreciate what was going on.
Elora tried striking from different angles, one low, another high, feinting one way only to strike from another. The spear was her weapon, even if it may be thought of as the domain of footmen, she embraced it despite that. The speed of it complemented her agility better than a sword could, and it's reach when paired with her footwork gave her an edge over most combatants she faced that lacked one or another of such traits.
Morbo matched her attacks with quick elusive steps or with a deflection from the stave of his poleaxe. Elora didn't let her spear be still for a moment, not allowing him an opportunity to take hold of it or get past her defences. Each strike she made was followed by a hasty retraction and shuffle backwards.
The dance went on, 'oohs' and 'ahhs' from those looking on, along with crass remarks, followed their movements as they weaved about the sparring ring. But as it went on more calls like 'Get on with it!' or 'Get off ye' arse fairy!' were thrown out.
Elora was too disciplined to over-extend and give him the opening he seemingly waited for. She had the reach, the speed to strike before he could complete his own and they both knew it.
Elora struck out once more, the same as she had a dozen times already, but Morbo twisted away violently, fully committing his momentum as he spun away from the strike, appearing out of control. Elora seized the opening, planting a foot forward to thrust out, only then did she realise he was not simply spinning away, but bringing the axe around in a full arc to meet her. He willing exposed himself to a strike from her in his side, knowing that she couldn't take it had she wanted to, such was the weight and power he put behind the poleaxe; he was so committed to it that he would still cleave her open had she pierced him with the spear.

Elora did all she could and twisted about, bringing her shield to meet the attack. Such was the force behind the cruel blade, that Elora let out a cry as pain lanced up her arm as shield and axe met. It sent her staggering backwards as the shield hit her body. She barely stayed on her feet, and had but a moment before he was on her again.
He carried the momentum of each attack to the next, sweeping it through in wide arcing strikes, constantly pressing forward, not allowing her the chance to recover and put some distance between them. There were moments she had to strike, in the mad scramble, but each would have been suicidal when faced with the inevitability and purpose with which Morbo assailed her. Elora all but abandoned offence and she ducked, rolled, deflected and otherwise did all she could to survive. The war of attrition was clearly being won by the Hunter as he reigned down blow after blow; he was flowing with the weapon, and she against it, each time she brought her shield to divert him, her strength lessened. A numbness was spreading through her arm from the initial strike she'd met head on.
So focused was she on simply staying alive, that Elora didn't hear whether the men and women were cheering them on or watching in anxious silence, at what seemed to be a battle in earnest now.
There was an understanding that passed between she and Morbo, he was not going for the kill and trying to bypass her shield, but instead attacking it with a savagery that demanded answering, lest she want an axe buried in her flesh. It was all Elora could do as they battled, to bring her shield about to meet each blow, each connection ringing a cry from her as she staggered from it.
He was bigger and stronger than she was and it wasn't a fight she could win. In a true battle, one she was far more suited to than duelling, she could hold him off until support came from her comrades, or fall back to the safety of numbers, at worst she could deal him a fatal wound before she died, but here she was overwhelmed and no help would be coming.
Her skin glistened in the firelight, sweat mingling with water that stung her eyes as it dripped down her face. Her breath was laboured but Morbo only seemed to be getting stronger, revelling in the exhilaration of it all.
She wielded her spear like it was glass, not striking with it for fear it would spell destruction if she did. She recognised the flaw as she scrambled back from a particularly violent swing from Morbo that passed over her head as she ducked. She disguarded her spear - along with any pretence of a civilised duel - and leapt towards Morbo as he brought his axe around for another swing. She didn't want to get into a wrestling match with him, but even less did she want to remain helpless as he reigned down blow after blow.
The edge of her shield caught him square in the chest as she managed to get inside his reach, his blade behind her now and ineffectual as they became tangled up. She tried to roll away as they tumbled to the ground, but his grip on her neck was stronger than she would have believed. She choked for breath as he flipped her onto her back, the axe now a transformed to a cleaver in his hand, short enough to wield effectively at close distance. He brought the weapon to her chest and tapped her armour, the lightness of the act almost comical when compared to the ferocity he had fought with.
Elora coughed as he let go of her neck and got to his feet. She'd be sore the next day she knew, but it was probably for the best. She hadn't been in a fight as intense as that for years. She reached for the offered hand and was about to speak, when her words were cut short...

A blood curdling scream, one of born of terror and pain, cut through the din of camp. Everyone was still for a moment, their breaths caught in their throat. Morbo reacted first, snatching her hand up and yanking her to her feet. He took off running moments later towards the scream, cleaver in hand.
"Weapons! To arms!" Elora shouted in a hoarse voice to the terrified men and women. "With me!" She grabbed her spear and sprinted after the Hunter into the darkness that had settled on the forest.

 

[Rabid_Rabbit]

For the briefest moment, Morbo’s gaze connected with hers, and he saw her pale. She seemed … fearful, but not of him. Of the people behind him, closing the gap. He saw her as a pale woman, beautiful and somehow, although now, he couldn’t find the words to articulate why – tragic, looking small in her armour, fighting against what would be considered a monster. But still, they squared off, and began.

Morbo had been a vivid and vicious creature, flying at her and retreating, trying to break her resistance with her shield in the same effective ways he had on the battlefield. He refused to go in too hard and too impatiently; there was nothing in his movements that suggested he would ‘get off his arse’ as the jeers of the motley around them encouraged. No, Morbo had more sense than that, if he rushed her he may well simply impale himself, and it meant they circled each other until one gave out from exhaustion, he would.

The level of humanity fae expressed varied wildly between even family members. Morbo’s father had been a huge, harrowing centipede like creature, crawling and curling on human arms, but when Morbo had been born, he had looked exactly like a human baby, and it had earmarked him for training as a persistent predator – something that simply followed, until his prey tired itself out trying to evade inevitable doom. It made him unerring, landing blows on her shield not with the intention to break her guard but wear her down.

He could see, in Elora’s eyes she understood – wether on the strategic level of a captian, or on some deeper, primal level echoing her ancestors fear as they tried – and failed – to escape some predator. He had caught her, and now, it was a matter of winning the inches, to claim the mile.

The air around her was misty, the faint steam rising off her skin made him wary – was she … warm? Or was she cold? He couldn’t get close enough to tell, but it sparked some excitement in him – perhaps, the knowledge she now had something unknown hiding under her proper military training. Morbo’s own training had given him openings to magically incapacitate, but that’s not what this was about, it was not what a spar should come down to – that unfair advantage, but perhaps … it was not so unfair if she used hers…

But as they circled, Morbo realised she was not using her magic, in fact; she seemed wholly unaware of its power. Everything fell back to military and …

WHAM! He had considered, been a shade too distracted for a fraction too long. He hadn’t even considered she would drop her spear and go for him like a brawler, her shield connecting with his chest and – despite the cushioning of his leather coat – it hit him hard. It would raise a straight bruise across his chest, one he would not feel proud of.

His immediate response was not anger, but fear. He had been here, once before – someone had tried to get in too close to him and get behind him, pressing into his back so they could hold a knife to his throat – it had not ended well for them, becoming broken and torn. He knew he had to get her away from him before she too was harmed.

And so, he grabbed whatever he could, frantically crushing her throat as he tossed her like a ragdoll, pinning her down. End the fight end the fight end the fight … His eyes met hers, so incredibly close and also miles and miles away, to another space, another fight, her breath froze his, turning it into a fine white mist that mingled, blasting his cheeks with a freezing cold that tasted faintly sweet in his senses.

He folded his cleaver, bringing it up to her breastplate, and an almost delicate chime rang out from the circle. It had halved in size as people had closed the space, forcing them together through the sparring session. Morbo had ended the fight, and his heavy breathing began to slow, letting go of her throat. It didn’t feel like a victory, but rather the narrow escape of a very dangerous situation.

He offered her a weak smile, trying to play down the sudden, deeply personal and aggressive movements that had brought them to lying in the dirt, weapons almost forgotten but for silencing the fight. He felt a little relieved when she took his offered hand – at least, the choking hadn’t inspired ire – or scared her. He felt the rolling sensation of his back adjusting, and he took a deep breath, about to say something –

AAAAAAaaaugh!

The fear in the scream that ripped through the air pierced Morbo’s consciousness and made him immediately forget the fight, he was already sprinting for the scream, sparks flying from his weapon as the hinges straightened the stave into a poleaxe again. Sprinting through the dark without a torch, he couldn’t see, but he could taste it – he could feel it, like a penny pressed on his tongue. Something huge and dead was nearby…

They had set up patrols to make sure they weren’t ambushed in the night, a roughly-circular path around the camp and ridge, with a couple of soldiers patrolling clockwise and a couple patrolling counter clockwise. However, they weren’t found on the patrol path. Instead, they found long, red streaks into the dirt. Morbo was bent double, smelling the ground for the pain before the other soldiers, with torches came to allow others to search.

“Through there …” he pointed; the undergrowth was broken, almost trampled flat and marked with the vicious gouges of a man who was being dragged. Morbo felt his stomach drop, snagged on branches was some strange looking, filament like tendrils. They were rapidly losing their ability to move, however when they had been pulled off something larger they would have thrashed violently. “Someone has been taken…” no point in a head count – he was certain they would find out soon enough. Morbo was about to bark an order, before realising it wasn’t his place to lead the people.

He looked to Elora, almost sceptical, but hopeful. “Elora - Captain Leblanc … what should we do?”

 

[Jordan-RP]

Elora crashed through the undergrowth, following the sound of Morbo somewhere ahead of her. Her armour protected her from the worst of it, but the moonlight cast it's ghostly light into the forest and the shadows of the autumn branches blanketed the forest floor, obscuring her pursuit as much as it did aid her. Stray branches lashed out unexpectedly and roots continued to try and snare her.
"This way!" She called to those behind her, who carried torches with them. She had already been breathless from her fight with Morbo, but now, the sprint through the trees coupled with the fear of what they may find, caused her lungs to scream in protest, unable to draw in the air her body desperately needed.

She made herself slow down when she couldn't hear the Hunter ahead anymore. "Morbo?" She said into the darkness. Someone with a torch reached her, and a little way ahead they met Morbo crouched over a trail of blood and disturbed ground.

She looked about the scene before them, spotting an extinguished torch that lay in the dirt, taking in the streaks of blood, the strange tendrils that withered on the floor...

Elora's chest pounded against her armour. She wasn't sure who was missing yet. Through the forest - to the east - the light of a torch about a hundred or more yards off approached them; that would be one of the other patrols, she thought. Those who'd followed behind her now gathered around the disturbed ground, a sense of dread settled on them, and to a lesser extend, Elora. The unknown threat taunting them with the lack of even a body. They were only able to imagine what had taken one of their comrades. They kept close together, none daring to separate themselves from the group lest they too be claimed.

Elora looked to Morbo as he spoke. Asking her what they should do. She hesitated a moment, her eyes trailed over the gouge marks in the soil, leading off into the moonlit forest. Whoever had been taken was most likely dead, their fate already sealed, and there was nothing any of them would be able to do to change it. However a glance to the the soldiers behind her - the flickering torchlight illuminating the fear set into their faces - was enough to make the decision clear.

She looked between the faces of the men and women there, still trying to catch her breath. "Dawe, Cadraw, Yen, Hesha and Sammish. You're with us. Davey you're in charge of the rest. Get those other patrols back to camp with you, and make sure no one else is left out here, call out if you have to. Get them back. Move!" She estimated Davey the most competent among them to lead, he may be cocky but he had a the wits to give orders, she hoped.
Not everyone from camp had arrived yet, and there were still two patrols left out here. Were they to all follow the trail, stragglers would be left behind out in the woods, or they'd be forced to wait and gather everyone and count their numbers before moving. She wasn't willing to sacrifice the time or her men to pursue this horror.
Those she chose to follow herself and the Hunter were those who seemed less terrified, perhaps due to bravery or simply foolishness. Either way she trusted them more than the others not to flee.

She took a torch and tossed it to Morbo, to take the lead.

They moved quickly through the forest in pursuit, their torches proving far more reliable than the fickle moonlight. Streaks of blood or broken underbrush painted the way. "Ugh, smells rotted..." One murmured. Indeed it did, the air had a closeness to it that the rest of the forest didn't. The trees bled sap and their branches seemed to droop the deeper they went, as if the weight of the sky was too great for them to bear.

"We should go back, he'll be dead by now." Sammish protested - probably echoing the thoughts of some of the others - a whine crept into the edges of his voice. He had a capable look to him, though Elora knew that wasn't always reliable, some simply liked to think themselves capable.
"Yeah an' if it were you, asshole?" Hesha bit back in a shouted whisper.
"I wouldn't have got caught in the first place!" He hissed.
"Enough." Elora said flatly, her voice was not raised, but it still sounded as if it were, over the hushed bickering behind her. "We'll find out either way."

That was the limit of conversation as Morbo led them along the creatures trail. The feted smell of the forest grew stronger as they went, the whiff of rot carried along the wind.
They reached the edge of a bowl, it's steep slopes leading down to the floor of the basin. The trees bore scares bigger than Elora's arm, from something that had clawed and tore at them. She dared not breath or move as she looked down. The forest had seemed to grow quieter until now, now they stood in an unnatural quiet, no night life stirred or made a sound, only the thin rustle of the wind in the trees kept them from total silence. They all knew without saying it or needing confirmation from their guide; somewhere at the bottom of this bowl in the earth, their quarry awaited them.

Fear twisted at Elora's insides. Everything pushed her to fall back and flee from this place. To spare herself from this dreadful thing. She was about to do just that, and signal for them to leave, when she heard a whimper carry across the wind, faint and oh-so pitiful. A glance to Morbo confirmed it wasn't just her imagination.

Elora felt she had to say something, anything really, before asking them to face down whatever was down there. She knew Morbo would be willing to go with her, but the rest?
Her mouth worked wordlessly trying to grasp at something that could motivate them, but she knew words alone wouldn't do that. "Look out for the man next to you." She said simply as she made her way down the steep slope. Any retreat back up it would be hopeless against something big enough to rip apart some of the trees she passed. A pair of shapes were on the ground at the bottom, large and unmoving. Elora couldn't make out what they were, but the smell of rot poured from them. One was smaller than the other.

Bears, she realised, gritting her teeth and raising her spear. But they didn't move as the group of humans, and Morbo, approached.
The smaller one, an adolescent, had been eaten out, it's belly ripped to pieces and it's face broken, and the other lay unmoving, blood staining the earth around it.
Beyond it was an entrance to a cave, it's mouth open like the welcoming arms of death beckoning them inside.

Elora, against every one of her senses that screamed for her to run, began to move towards the entrance to the cave, so focused was she on it, that she hadn't properly inspected the second corpse as she stepped past it.

A stirring from it caused her to freeze in terror, expecting to be devoured on the spot, but the devouring never came. She looked to the creature, it's breath so faint it's life was barely visible. The great beast eyed Elora and those with her before turning it's face away uncaring. It was covered in gore, chucks of flesh missing from it's body. Elora realised with horror that it's wounds hadn't been inflicted all at once, the raw flesh were in different stages of decay and infection; some open, fresh and bleeding, others rotting and dead. Something had been feeding on it over time. She couldn't imagine what could have done such a thing, was it cruelty, some malice that was responsible for the suffering of the bear? She felt a stab of pity for it, found herself wanting to put it out it's misery, but not daring to risk alerting whatever had done this.

"Please... No... N-no...Argh!" The wailing came from inside the cave, Elora looked to Morbo, hoping for some direction. She knew nothing of what they faced. Her knuckles were white as they clutched the spear and she wanted nothing more than to run from the cursed place.

But that voice...

Elora took a step towards the cave...

 

[Rabid_Rabbit]

Morbo was staring down into the trees, the curling darkness beyond the branches seemed to shift, and he had to supress a shudder at the thought of more of those twisting, squirming filaments. Which was worse? To find their comrade fallen, or to find nothing, and be set upon by whatever had infested the malevolent beast?

It was so incredibly quiet. The tiny, almost imperceptible sounds of the forest had quietened in the wake of the unlucky soldier’s desperate wail. It set Morbo on edge far, far more than any distant wailing, or howl of a wolf, or sounds of destruction could. The damage had been done, and the beast had moved on. It had been successful in its hunt, and had now either left, or chosen to hunt further.

“Do not get too close to the … twisting things,” Morbo instructed. They weren’t dangerous. They were fine, but he did not want someone screaming if something fell on them. He held his torch high, Walking abreast with Elora. Behind him, he could feel Hesha and Yen behind him, peering out around his broad shoulders the same way a child would peer around its mother’s skirts.

Yen especially, was tiny – she was an archer who had been hastily recruited for footwork, and was still uncomfortable holding a sword, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the glint of her weapon as it shook in the torchlight. The smell of death was overpowering – like a slaughterhouse. For Morbo, a violent death reeked, the more violently a soul was torn from the body, the more energy it released, dissipating into the atmosphere. To the others, however, it was a cold, still night.

“It smells rotted,” Dawe observed from his place at the rear. Morbo couldn’t agree or disagree. He simply nodded, bending again to smell the ground.

“He’s dead,” he finally announced. “They both are…” both? Both patrol men? The lost soldier … and the attacker? He did not elaborate, crawling forwards, his head bent to the ground, sniffing like a beast. Under his coat, something shifted, back and forth, and rising from the leather were strange points and angles. For Dawe, watching Morbo move forwards like that, he wondered if they were following another beast into a trap? The five novice soldiers exchanged sideways glances, uncertain and anxious.

Morbo’s wretched sniffing brought them to the edge of what could only be described as a pit, the produce of some great force exploding at its epicentre millennia ago. Morbo stood, frowning down into the trees. The sides were steep, and his thoughts matched Elora’s - whatever had the strength to drag a full grown man as if it were nothing would clearly be able to climb back out much faster than armoured humans. Morbo’s skin crawled; he could sense a trap, something eager to close in on them if they weren’t careful, as they picked their way down the sides.

“Don’t worry,” Morbo said to her. “We’ve been opponents once. That’s enough. I’ll look out for you now.”

He had held firm against the feeling. He wanted to run too, but he had faced these things before. It was a feeling that grasped him as they tentatively approached, maintaining a deep and fearful hold on his heart.

The smaller bear was dead, but Elora had stepped over the other before he could stop her. Even so enfeebled as it was, he had seen strength come from surprising places, and he wanted to place a weapon between her and it. However, as it moved, Morbo realised it was mangled beyond even the ability to stand, merely drag itself – and now, even in the haze that the massive damage had descend upon it, it had no interest in attacking intruders upon its quiet suffering.

Morbo took a breath. “One moment,” he said quietly. He put the bear out of its misery, landing a neat slice on the back of its neck. It didn’t make a noise as it crumpled, seemingly smothered by the oppressive atmosphere of the pit. He said a prayer for the creature, saddened by the state it had been left in, before following, taking his stride beside Elora.

He looked to her out of the corner of his eye. He could not believe less than an hour before they had been goading each other in a hasty sparring session, now to be staring death in the face again. He froze as finally, screams reached their ears. They needed to recover the man.

Morbo took a step forward with Elora, his torch held high. He did not like wielding his axe as a poleaxe one handed, but also, they needed light. Behind them, he could hear the shaking breaths, partially from the smothering cold belching from the cave, partially from fear. His eyes met Elora’s.

“Go slowly, they are no better than us at hearing, but we must be on guard. Elora, you three, go to one side, Hesha, Yen, we will take the other. We do not want something running blindly into us,” He whispered. He could sense Elora’s fear, and uncertainty, and he resolved he would explain what he had observed previously to her, that had made his certain they should avoid the middle of the path.

They crept forward, the occasional anguished cry confirming to Morbo that – like the bear outside, whatever was inside was providing a slow, traumatic death. He had been wrong, whatever was happening to the man in there, was surely worse than death … no. Was it? He was so confused. He could feel the death here, so thick it was like tropical humidity. Something had died here recently, surely…

The cave twisted and a wet, sucking sound, coupled with crunching of bones, told Morbo that they would not find an intact man at the end of the tunnel. He could hear the shaking breath of Hesha and Yen behind him, still. Their fear had never abated.

The cave opened out, and the dim torches threw light on something huge and distinctly man-like in the centre of the cavern. It was crouched, the bony knobs of its spine sticking out as its frantic side-to-side movements indicated it was tearing at something. Morbo hesitated – it looked nothing like the infected creatures, the livestock and children, he had needed to ‘process’.

No, this thing was massive, borad and hulking. The tendrils and filaments waved along its back – pale and jelly-like, in a way that reminded Mobo of something halfway between a razorback boar, and a man. On the other side, he could hear the wimper of one of the men, terrified and now trying to hide behind Elora. They crept forward, the thing still ripping at the now silent man.

Someone behind the two leaders kicked a rock. The clattering sound was like a thunderclap, and the creature turned. Its long, white face, framed with tendrils, was dripping drool and blood. Its mouth opened, wide – so wide a whole man could have fit his head and shoulders into its gaping maw.

And then, it spoke.

“Please… No… N-no… Argh!” A perfect replication of the anguished scream they had heard from the mouth of the cave, spit from that gaping hole of a mouth. “AAAAAAAAAAAAugh!” It wailed, pouncing forwards, hulking arms outstretched.

Morbo didn’t even think. He leapt forward, swinging his axe to connect with its chest before it could reach Elora. It stumbled, but continued to charge.