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The Heartwood
Loch Faast Keep
To the Mines
Attaday, the Eighth Day of Yrick


Lyric, Kadri, the Pack, The Lockpick and a collection of Forest Kin

From the dam Lyric’s small fleet made a northwestern course, heading away from the arched bridge and towards the Keep itself. They had the largest collection of boats because they were the largest group. There were no paddles but their boats moved all the same.

Rats, it seemed, were extremely useful. They moved slower, however as there were more oats, more rafts than there were rats. With the failing light the long arched bridge vanished into the darkness and for a while they were in a black bubble, seeing only water whichever way they looked – though occasionally they had a glimpse of Cesare’s three punts to their right.

They destination had just faded into vision ahead of them when a loud horn echoed across the lake, a deep bawooom, a call to arms and alarms.

The horn itself was unexpected but also not surprising. It also meant that Pietro’s group had been discovered. But that was what a diversion was for, wasn’t it? At the same time, far from them, two sets of mill gates away, lights appeared along the walls. Not torches, but something more akin to the crystal shrouded lamps found at Home.

Their destination was the west most mill towers, the pair closest to the Hunter’s Bridge.

To that Broke had a dark observation.

“We might be wanting to find a different way back …”

Between the rats and ropes the parapet was easily made. The door to the gate tower was opened, but not from the outside. This seemed to be The Lockpick’s job and it also seemed to mean that the Pack had done this before. Very quickly, extremely quickly, the pack hustled everyone onto the gate tower.

The gatehouse was a complex structure in itself, but most importantly it was crafted into three levels. The middle level, which was where they were right now, was primarily used for passage. An upper level, an attic, was accessed by a ladder, housed the mountings and crown gears of the windmill vanes. Last was a lower level, which could be looked down into from where they stood, which held bearings for the main shaft and support for other axles for transferring power to other locations within the keep.

The space was dim and shadowy, but it was illuminated. A set of crystal lamps maintained a path of light, so one could walk safely from one gatehouse door to its opposite mate in the other tower. The two mill towers were connected by a curved rectangular space. Indeed this arrangement made a modicum of sense. If the Tower was invaded, barring these two doors would prevent an attacker from gaining access across the shaft’s ring.

To wolves lead the way, bounding down the tall stairs. The first was the black furred Wuff-Wuff, the second was the white wolf named Snow. Snow pressed an ear to the floor. It took two looks to realize Snow was listening – or trying to – what might be beyond that portal. The white wolf looked up and nodded.

Broke stood. She addressed all.

“Some of you ain’t been here before. Our goal is down. As fast as possible. There are stairs. There are ladders. There are places you can leap. Miss and you will fall and you are dead. Everything moves down there. You get caught and you are dead.

“We are like One Fang’s arrows.

“We are the predators. Someone tries to stop us, we deal with it, then and there.”

She nodded. Once. Once and Snow pulled back the door. Immediately Wuff-Wuff dropped through, her deadly black daggers in each paw. A whumf was heard from below and then nothing. Then followed Snow then Broke and then Wrath and then Tawny. Then the Rats and Mice. Lyric was almost pushed through – but that was by One Fang, who followed right behind. Soft went through the trapdoor after those two.

Which left the rear guard being Kadri and the Lockpick.

Fine, just Kadri as The Lockpick simply vanished.

Not that the Amber princess had a choice. She certainly could not keep up with the wuffish vanguard, especially having never been here before and she had not befriended a guide like Keiko and Lyric had.

Once through the door this was even more apparent.

This was no stone carved passage nor fancy keep stair. They were passing through the guts of a complex mill, one that helped power the machinery buried deep below and throughout the keep. The cylindrical space was dominated by the slowly moving central shaft, which in turn was braced by outgoing spokes every so often and supported by bearings at regular locations. Hub gears and transfer axes lanced outwards as the descended, transferring the windmill’s power into other portions of the keep. Every so often there were huge gears that had to be traversed, where a loose cloak catching would pull one to one’s grinding doom.

Then there were the stairs and ladders and balconies that lead the way don in a crazy pattern. It probably made tremendous sense if you were a Dwarf maintaining the millworks, but to anyone else they simply lead off here and there and everywhere, through doorways and archways that reached into the adjacent keep halls. Some of the passages had doors, others, disturbingly, did not. They were of odd construction too. Some of the pieces were wood, but many were also made of the most common metal available to them.

Darksteel.

This place was filled with an immense and incalculable wealth, in the form of railings and stair treads.

Down they went. And the deeper they went the less crystal lamps they had to light their way. But things were not completely dark. Glowing stones replaced the lamps, sleek rectangles set in regular intervals into the shaft’s circumference, the size of a loaf of bread, and they glowed a soft, pale and creepy green.

Grabbing Lyric’s collar One Fang suddenly threw the minstrel forward and against the wall. They had just passed one of those long open passageways. As he moved to her side his bow was drawn up and a black tipped arrow lanced into the darkness.

“I saw something move.”

He wasn’t the only one. Ahead, beyond where Lyric could see, something growled. Somethings, somethings in the plural sense, apparently. There was the sound of a fight, a scuffling. Apparently Wuff-Wuff had found something blocking their way.

In truth the growl was a mixture of a hiss and grumbling, both distinctive and something neither Kadri nor Lyric had ever head before. The fact that this feral growling echoed in the passage that Lyric had just passed meant that they certainly were not alone. One fang made sure they were flattened against the wall as he looked towards that opening.

“Weasels.”

And there were at least three.

One was at the front facing the pack.

One was in the middle, so close that Lyric could swear she heard it breathing in the dark passage next to her.

The third could be seen, oh most definitely, loping down the metal stairs from above.

It was a dangerous looking creature. It was the size of a small horse in mass and volume but low to the ground. It was like a merebeast that had grown far too large and wrapped in velvet coat cast in far too many shades of grey. It was definitely weasel-like, but different, like a mere beast with too many legs, a long snout and a narrow muzzle with jaws wide enough to swallow a strong man’s leg.

Kadri was at the intersection three sets of stairs and a passage with a door in it. The stairs lead up, down and with the last reaching towards one of the massive bushings wrapped around the central shaft.

And since the third Weasel was coming down the stairs, it was Kadri that stood between the Dwarven critter and the rest of her party.

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Lyric

The Minstrel had one last task of preparation left to her before the small flotilla reached the keep walls. With thin strips of leather, she tied her hair in three places down her back. It would be unsafe and unwise to go anywhere inside, into confined areas, especially places where she suspected more of those gears and grinder things like at the mill house back at Wave Riders Reach.

Once her long hair had been banded, she then used two more leather lacing strips to secure the ties loosely to the back of her armor. That would secure her 'hair tail' from flailing around should she need to drop any distance, or move quickly enough that she might get it caught.

Nothing short of shaving her head was any more safe and secure than this so she was satisfied with her efforts once she tested her ability to turn her head and feel it binding or tugging.

She was wearing no loose clothing either, even if the cool air across the lake prickled her skin a little. The breeze felt good and helped keep her cool under the armor and that gave her time to meditate in preparation... Time to think and collect her thoughts and let the world slow down a little.

If Kadri had turned down Lockpick's offered potion due to the past experience back at Home, then Lyric would ask for it but hold it.

"Can it be shared?"

You could never take too many precautions. The Pack and other Kin were probably able to mask themselves, or their scents were indistinguishable enough to be lost within the confines of the Keep. But Lyric was not Forest Kin and introducing a new smell was a potential danger to the mission. But, who knew what risks would be involved given Lockpick's predilection for pranks, and the Divine Being she served? Could the potion mask her in some way? Maybe? Or might it actually make her smell so bad that the Weasel's lost all of their olfactory advantage? She doubted that Lockpick would be so reckless as to do something that might jeopardize the mission with stakes so high and the Pack depending on every advantage.

She would ask One Fang for his opinion on whether this would be a good idea. "Is it it worth the risk to the mission to accept the possible side-effects of this? Am we a greater liability to the Pack without it?"

(Depending on the answers to the above questions- I may need an edit here)

****

At the intersection with the Weasels-

Lyric had the presence of mind and the physical acumen to twist a little as One Fang threw her up against the wall. She turned herself to hit the wall with her right shoulder blade so that she didn't damage the Mandolin. She might need it very soon and, besides, having it cracked would be heartbreaking.

There she waited nearly silent and as still as possible, save for the slow reach behind her back to grasp the hilts of her blades. She eased them slowly down a ways. She listened for the breathing, timing it to her own heartbeat, like joining in a song already being played. With each beat, she became part of this song... With each breath she let the story reveal itself.

If the creature revealed itself beyond that hallway's edge, and made itself visible to those who waited then Lyric would strike as she seemed to be very close to it already. Lyric whispered a simple yet strange word to herself, and for her own benefit.

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Kadri:

"Hi?"

She made a face and a motion towards the thing, confusing its senses.(Dullard) then moved back in a tumble and spin up the stars towards the rest of the party, trying to draw the thing in after her , and draw steel.

If she found herself a suitable spot to duck out of view ..."Lady mine, lend your aid, because Lizard bait is not a fun thing to be."

Was said under her breath.
(Aryllis cloak)

As soon as it hopefully passed her she would come in behind, blade drawn, and a slice at the hamstrings.

"Weasel said to fox - please come out to play - fox said unto weasel - don't like you anyway. Hunter and hunted is a complicated game. From a certain angle - all seems quite the same."

Hopefully again getting its attention, she darts through the tunnel, seeing if she can get it to yet again turn and turn its back on the others.

And if it kept coming she would have to keep running - because her claws and teeth were not up to par with this beastie.

Last edited by Art in the Blood; Sun 16/04/17 02:47 UTC.
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The Heartwood
Loch Faast Keep
To the Mines
Attaday, the Eighth Day of Yrick


Lyric, Kadri, the Pack, The Lockpick and a collection of Forest Kin

… bits of conversations, back at home …

The small, black clad Mouse held up the crockery pot to Lyric with a disarming smile so innocent it was anything but.

“There’s only enough for one person, but that should certainly be enough …”

A little later, out of The Lockpick’s earshot – which is quite a distance away – One Fang sniffed the concoction suspiciously.

“Rrrrremember first, who made this. Rrrrremember second, who she probably made it for.

“Oh it will work. But save it for an absolute last resort.”


There were too many things happening at once. Lyric backed against the wall, sharp ears hearing the breathing of the weasel just around the corner. Kadri slashing her hand in front of a second dangerous critter, before stepping backwards, one foot on the edge of the landing she was on, which was also the stair’s top riser. The sound of growling, two different manners, both predatory, accompanied by what only could be the sound of Wuff-Wuuf’s deadly knives. The problem, of course, was that a melee was not counted in candle marks, it was counted in the fraction of heartbeats.

One Fang stepped back an away from the wall, a single feral motion that ended with the wuff standing in front of the dark opening, his bow with black tipped arrows up and one was loosed and immediately followed by the knocking of a second arrow.

The dark cloaked Amber princess, steel drawn, moved towards the rest of the party, which meant a tumble down the stairs towards Lyric and One Fang. Above, the third Weasel too a slow step downwards, following the confusing Kadri.

The second arrow was let free, swift and powerful, towards the shadowed opening. That it hit its mark was unquestionable, for as it flew forward the arrow was met before it even reached the dark passage. Like a runaway horse the second Weasel charged out, towards the archer, a blur of fast moving brown and black fur, with wild beady eyes of crimson focused on its prey and a wide-open mouth full of sharp teeth.

The only thing that was faster was Lyric’s own blades, slashing out, driving deep into the unprotected side of the beast. The spray of blood was black and hot and copper scented, soaking the well-kept finish of the minstrel’s armor. And this was benefit of teamwork. Not dead but badly hurt, the Weasel turned to deal with this new threat, allowing One Fang to set another arrow in place.

The first place that could provide appropriate shelter for Kadri to hide was at the base of the stairs, and it was a familiar place, the corridor that was just emptied by the Weasel now turning to face Lyric. She could easily slide pass, to take shelter in the dark. The air in this was passage was, however, very still.

That was not the problem.

The problem was that the third Weasel, the weasel that was following Kadri, suddenly was bereft of its prey. Its blood red eyes snapped forward and there was one of those who it lived to hunt.

It lept.

The second Weasel snapped at Lyric, its jaw making a loud noise as all it bit was empty air. It’s back was to Kadri. But One Fang’s third arrow did not meet its mark. In fact, it never had a chance to be fired.

There was a streak of gray, a spray of blood, and then, one, two, three heartbeats later a crashing sound, very loud, farther down, of something very large slamming through wooden framing. The stairs shook so hard both Lyric and her Weasel had to forget about each other for a moment to make sure they didn’t get tossed off the landing.

Kadri, in the stone corridor was safe. She had tried to lash out but a leaping critter was unexpected, her knife only found fur.

When the stairs stopped shaking there was no sign of the grey Weasel.

There was also no sign of One Fang.


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Lyric

The pack would not be waiting...

“Some of you ain’t been here before. Our goal is down. As fast as possible. There are stairs. There are ladders. There are places you can leap. Miss and you will fall and you are dead. Everything moves down there. You get caught and you are dead.

“We are like One Fang’s arrows.

“We are the predators. Someone tries to stop us, we deal with it, then and there.”


Down... the direction One Fang was dragged. Falling. Dead?

No... Not until she saw his lifeless body, not until then. She wanted to go after him. But she couldn't. She knew she couldn't but she wanted to... for many reasons, one or more of them dangerous to the whole mission. Focus...

The bloody gore that had sprayed over her, at such a close range that she felt the fur of the weasel against her arms and hands as she carved her blades into the flesh of the perpetually enraged beast, now dripped from Harmony and Melody. It ran in thin rivulets down her face, body and armor, at the pull of gravity, but only served to focus her on the dying but deadly creature that had turned its attention to her.

She made her own guttural growl to fix it's attention solely upon her. Maybe its pain would dull its senses and slow its reactions. Lyric wanted to keep the weasel's eyes on her because she knew Kadri was behind the creature. Lyric had to trust in her own skills and speed and, if Kadri understood and and struck the beast from behind, then Lyric would deliver a death blow.... and witness the life fade from its eyes.

The Pack had moved on. That was the rule. The mission was more important. Even Wuff-Wuff would have moved on after killing the first of the three weasels. That was the plan... fall and you die... if someone tries to stop you, deal with it, then and there.

The only way this worked was down and down and fast. Team work. Everyone has a part to play.

Lyric dragged the single edge of Harmony against that of Melody to make a wicked and threatening sound.

"Come and get me," she hissed.

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Kadri

She let out a small curse as the thing leaped. An error may have cost one-fang his life - but no time for that until later.

Positioning herself on the other side from lyric, she caught her eye, nodded - and struck at the beast - hoping this time to find purchase.

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The Heartwood
Loch Faast Keep
To the Mines
Attaday, the Eighth Day of Yrick


Lyric, Kadri, the Pack, The Lockpick and a collection of Forest Kin

The weasel turned.

Of course it did. It was not intelligent, like the Forest Folk. But it was a beast and it was cunning and it did understand when it was being threatened. Thus it lashed out, it lunged, only to be met by the bright sharp edges of Harmony and Melody.

And, being a beast, it was not schooled in tactics and thus when it turned to face Lyric it had forgotten about Kadri. Thus in a heartbeat the conflict turned from a challenge to a chaos. Fur and metal, teeth and claws and fists all struck out. No one escaped in this fight, no one came off clean, it took its toll on all involved.

Blood arced, blinding Kadri as her own daggers struck home. Lyric felt her leather hauberk pierced by long sharp fangs, cut into her flesh as the weasel’s jaws closed over her waist. Its growling was muffled by the minstrel’s flesh as it in turn was stabbed twice in the throat.

It still didn’t die.

And then something happened.

There was a howl. It was low, it was guttural, it was a sound that one could not not recognize. It was a sound that had haunted mortal and immortal souls since the beginning of time, the sound of a night mare, of certain death approaching, that all was already lost and one’s ending was no longer an if but a when and it was a when that was stalking upon this very heartbeat.

It was more than a howl of a hunting wolf.

It was The Howl of A Hunting Wolf.

The weasel’s eyes went wide, terrified. It shook, it shuddered, it bucked wildly.

Kadri felt that fear, she had no defenses against it, she was supposed to be prey and thus she was brutally reminded of that fact. It was a howl that made her completely alone, it was it shook her to the depths of her soul, not just fear but absolutely terrified. She was tossed, to be slammed down that hall she had took shelter in, like a rag doll.

It was all she could do to cower in the darkness, until that predatory call echoed away. Slamming into the wall had her left hand hanging useless at her side and one barely able to move. It could, but just barely.

Lyric heard that call. Knew it, felt it cut deep into her heart. Yet somehow she was able to still strike, to sink both her knives into the terrified weasel, hard enough, deep enough, to slash its awful throat open.

As it fell, tumbling off the stairs and into the darkness below, Lyric remembered the second problem with the dwarven weasels. That they were dwarven weasels and their handlers should be nearby. Indeed, steel shod footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs from far above and also from the dark side corridor - the places where both of the horrible creatures had come from.

How did Lyric resist?

Perhaps it was because she recognized the howling.

It had sounded like One Fang.

It had come from somewhere below Kadri and she.

In the darkness below, which, for the moment, was silent.

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Lyric

The Minstrel staggered back a step and the wall, alongside the hall opening, stopped her from falling down on her rear. Instead she found herself leaned back against that wall, with her feet bracing against the smooth fitted stones on the floor where the heels of her boots caught an edge.

The pain near her left hip was intense. Her midsection... The leather hauberk had resisted the claws, but not the powerful jaws and fangs. Bites were very dangerous. The risk of infection, the horrendous bruising damage to the muscles and... what if something inside her had been punctured?

That Howl, that Wild Hunt Howl, had... had.... saved her life. It made the weasel release her and gave her enough space to strike again, with all the adrenalin fueled fury she had left.

But now, with the combat over and the battle fever fading, the pain was revealing itself in full.

The weasel would be dead before it hit the bottom, but it had taken a grave price in her own blood. Her blades were thick with the creature's gore and it ran thickly over her hands and down her forearms. It covered her upper body from where she was bathed in it when slashing at the throat of her enemy. Her face was surely speckled and flecked and painted with the spray from her own furious efforts to swing her blades. Her hair would become matted once it dried... She could taste the coppery ichor in her mouth and spat that mixture of blood and saliva outwards and over the edge of the landing.

Everything felt slow except for the reach of her pain. Lyric leaned the swords against the wall carefully, one on each side, propped up much like she was and then pressed her hand, first her fingers then the whole palm, against her damaged armor and the underlying wound in the vain hope that the pressure would centralize the pain and narrow it. All it did was send a shudder through her whole body.

She wasn't bleeding much. But maybe that was relative. Who could tell though, what with the Weasel Blood Bath she just took. The wound was a puncture and the weasel hadn't gotten a chance to shake her, as such predators do to break their opponents neck or spine. It hadn't torn at her. That was a good thing, right? She wasn't bleeding much, or maybe seeping was a better word, but the pain was staggering because the weasel's fangs were big and her armor only protected her from so much. It was armor, cured and stiffened hide leather... against fangs powered by jaws meant to tear through hide and flesh.

Her vision swam. Maybe she was bleeding...

She crooked her fingers of the hand she held pressed to her abdomen and whispered or hissed a word that wasn't spoken in Colonial. And she relaxed a moment to catch her breath... but only a moment.

Her heart beat... she could hear it like a thrum thrum thrum in her head.... She could feel it in her chest and her arms and wrists and legs... and in the wound... thrum thrum thrum...

The Howl... She remembered. It cut into her soul, magical and demanding... commanding that fear rise. But it was sound, and maybe sound didn't affect her the same way as it did others. Or, maybe it was One Fang... She knew his voice... Maybe...

One Fang... He was alive.... Hurt, but alive... She had to get to him... down... always down.

Lyrics planted a free hand against the wall, like a lever, to push herself back up to her feet. ...always down.

And then she heard the the footfalls, armored, heavy, slow but deliberate. Hunting Beasts had handlers.

Lyric hissed a curse under her breath, it wasn't spoken in Colonial either.

Where was Kadri? She had been at the back end of the beast. Lyric knew the rebellious noble trickster had struck the beast but when the howl came and the beast released the Minstrel from it's jaws Lyric could only see it in front of her as she closed in to strike again with both blades. The Weasel had been flailing about in it's own fear of the Wild Howl.

That Howl had saved Lyric's life...

You might still die, you idiot

It had given her a chance to live... to keep fighting... but maybe Kadri had been thrown over the edge.

She cursed that curse again. Still not in Colonial.

And those boots, the sound of metal on stone, kept coming.

Down. Always down. If Kadri wasn't dead then she too would know that she had to keep going down.

Summoning her grit and will and endurance for the surge of pain that was about to hit her, she leaned over and grabbed both her blades, slid them back up into their hidden sheaths in her armor, and took those first soundless but pained steps for the ladder down... always down.

Get a grip... Focus Lyr... Focus!

She had to hold it together and find One Fang. She worried she was leaving Kadri behind, but she was not on the landing. Kadri knew the rules given to them all by Broke. Down. Always down.

If Kadri had fallen over the side, into the shaft... well, there wouldn't be much Lyric could do . But at least her companion would have followed the rules, right? Down, always down.

Every rung was like a new stab of pain to flesh and blood, organ and muscle. Tears ran down from her eyes, hand over gore covered hand, foot after foot down the rungs, the alternating motion made her torso twist and the pain was like four deep burning lances, punctures, focusing into one hub of blinding pain.

Down. Always Down.

"I'm coming One Fang," she hissed through her clenched teeth like it was an exhale, spittle spraying as she did. "Don't you dare die on me now..."




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[OOC Nice post smile ]

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Fight or flight. That was the howl, primal instinct. Gripping, icy fear. And it was something she had felt before many times. Had she not spent most of her life running? Running from her marriage, the one she never wanted. Running from her brothers, who wanted to bring her back. Running from being 'noble' for what that meant. Running from destiny. Running from her freedom. Running from everything. Running ...

Her racing mind stopped. Clarity.

Running was to as well as from. Every from had its own to. In running away from something there was also something you were running towards. She was running ... she was running down.

She took what healing ability she had and applied it to her 'better' hand, then darklight, cloak and hide.

She spoke in sing-song under her breath, the quaver in her voice mostly suppressed

"Lady, let me be as shadow, let me be as the mouse running from the hawk, as the fox from the hound. Let the chase begin, and let me leave them snapping at their own tails."

This was darkness. Darkness was her home. She shrugged her shoulders - and ran - quietly - down - down - down - duck, weave, hide, misdirect - wether throwing an object to redirect attention, or just sliding behind while people were not looking.

Somewhere down there would be lyric. She was obviously capable, she had to have survived. She would also be ; down.


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