Kitezh logs: Errol's rescue mission
Location: Somewhere in Kitezh
GM: Fiamme
Cast: Errol, Dulcinea
Intentions: Errol “Save the day!” Dulcinea “Retain dignity.”
Setup: “Nearby” poses show Dulcinea in her position as captive, which cannot be seen by Errol. There are various compares in there, all of which Errol overwhelmingly succeeds. Half way through Dulcinea lost connection and became an NPC.
The wind howls, shaking the snow from the icicle decked trees, twisted to either side of the black ice of the Road. Since the tracks went onto the ice, they have been lost, for no snow settles on that black and filthy ground. Yet scouts to either side of it have found no sign of tracks leaving it. Whoever raided the Chantris camp in Kitezh has not left it yet. A shout goes up suddenly. Tracks! Leading away into the trees.
Nearby, the prisoners huddle together for warmth, in the back of the cave. It is black, and the goat headed figures that dragged them there have gone. None of the Chantris troops talk now. Too dispirited.
Nearby, Dulcinea is trying to inspire them though, saying, "We must be patient. We won't be left here." Of course, she looks grand, and is dressed as well as can be for Kitezh.
Nearby, one of the troops is shivering, his teeth chattering together. His cloak is wrapped around a pale-faced comrade, and blood is slowly seeping through it. That one is shivering no more, and if there is breath still rising from his mouth it's imperceptible.
The horse's breath steams into the air as Errol tugs his mount into rearing. "To me, Feldane," he calls, and is surrounded in short order by riders in his house's livery - a dozen at least with several more falling in. Hooves soon beat against the frozen earth, moving rapidly trackward.
Before long the trees become more dense, and more than once a twisted horror of an animal is startled from their depths. None attack, although a black squirrel with too many limbs bares fanged jaws at them and chitters, warning them away from his home. Then, suddenly, it happens. The sound of movement from the slope above, and a distant rumble.
Nearby, Dulcinea of course does what she can for the man, with her own hands, but she only has basic medical knowledge, not useful for serious problems. Still, by now she's probably a little bloody too. Keeps an encouraging expression, even if it isn't cheerful.
Nearby, from outside the cave, the rough voices of one of the goatmen comes. "Set it off. That'll slow them down!" Laughter follows. "She should be back soon. She had plans for these ones."
The horsemen are wary and their mounts skitterish, but controlled. Errol lifts a mailed gloved to ease back his helm's visor as he peers upward at the slope.
What looks like a small avalanche is hurtling down the slope. There's only moments to decide. Retreat with the troops, or try to make it across to follow the tracks. Either way, it will be difficult to get so many men past the rumbling snow.
Nearby, a chill wind runs through the cave from an aperture at the back, moving out toward the ledge beyond. Its merciless chill draws a groan from one of the men.
Errol calls several names as he urges his mount forward - what will number the closest ten men - before waving the remaining riders back. The chosen charge foward with the Feldane lord on point, bent low over his steed's neck with his cape whipping behind him in the wind.
Snow, ice, and pieces of tree crash down behind Errol and his chosen few, while the troops left behind are hidden completely from view, their fate unknown. Yet, to a Feldane it may seem that at least one soul has shuffled off it's fleshy canopy as the rumbling stops and the last tree topples.
From the wind, Errol may very well hear the voice of Dulcinea. Not just her voice, but giving him information. Things like, "Errol I'm in, not quite sure I know where. The side of a hill."
Nearby, a voice launches into gutteral cursing. "Too slow, some of them are through. Time to move them. We can't wait for Her any longer."
Errol draws his mare to a halt once that pitfall is cleared and waves a hand for the riders to halt. He cants his head, as if listening to something, then spurs his mount forward again along the trail of tracks. The soldiers of Feldane follow.
The tracks lead steeply up. Perhaps a mountain goat could make their up that treacherous and icy trail, or a horse of exceptional agility.
High boulders ahead look like the perfect place to shelter from the howling winds.
Nearby, the gutteral voice sounds again. "Nearing the rocks. That should clear a few more. Hah, who'll lay odds on how many I can hit!"
Nearby, a second voice sneers, "None. You're slow, and old. Fit for roasting, like these chickens we have."
Errol may also hear, in the gusting of the wind, "Up a steep path. Beware of the rocks."
Nearby, a meaty thud, as if of a fist hitting flesh. "No roasting. These are for Her."
Nearby, Dulcinea is trying to be quiet when she murmurs these things into the wind.
Visor still up, Errol can spare the men behind a brief glance of Who's With Me? - it is a narrowed-eyed challenge, and a grin that dares. Then he is vaulting from his saddle and trudging up the trail without a glance behind - their following is assumed and - eventually - made true.
There is no warning, beyond Dulcinea's words on the wind. The huge rocks tilt, then begin to bound down the trail.
Hampered by mail and the huge sword at his back, Errol is not quite able to somersault and backflip - given the treacherous angle and surface, as well. But he can use his preternatural agility to dodge to the pathways less likely to be occupied by mossless stone.
The Feldane soldiers - less gifted - do this dance as well.
There is little snow for the boulders to gather. They hurtle down the trail like marbles in a chute. If marbles were the size of a horse.
Nearby, Dulcinea meanwhile, tries to tend the shallowly breathing officer.
Nearby, footsteps warn of their approach, then a group of goatheaded men stamp into the cave, wicked jagged edged knives clasped in their fists. There is barely room for them, and the leader, marked by the leather eyepatch he wears, anchored by curling goat horns, makes a beeline for the only woman there. Dulcinea. And grabs roughly for her arm.
There is hardly time for a muffled cry before the first soldier is flattened by the lead boulder. Perhaps 'becomes one with' is a more appropriate description for the inelastic collision that occurs. Two more lives are similarly cut short before the first wave rumbles down into the woods below.
A glint of metal high on the rocks above appears then is gone, and the observant might notice what looks like a shadow in the rock there. Perhaps the beginnings of a cave.
Nearby, Dulcinea, with no skills to combat this kind of thing, is left with her dignity, "Unhand me you villain!" Her chin is up, the green eyes flashing. And of course, the men must not have any weapons by this point.
Nearby, the leader dangles Dulcinea like a child's toy, and strides toward the exit of the cave. "Try anything funny and I gut her."
Errol glances to the thinner number behind him and works his glove in a bit of jive, directing half the number to one side of the shadow and the balance opposite. The men keep their swordhands at the ready as they take to a more stealthy climb.
Nearby, another captor picks up the wounded man Dulcinea was tending, and strides after his leader. Just beyond the exit is a gaping hole in the rock. Wordlessly he shoves the man down it, headfirst. A scraping sound, then the man's body is gone, zooming down what looks like a steep chute.
No movement above, it seems. Whoever was up there, whatever made the glint, they are well hidden.
Nearby, Dulcinea doesn't do anything to cause a fuss, but her shoulders are straight the whole time. Very likely a few of the men might also try to protect Dulcinea by steeping forward, but also they might back off with the wounded man is disposed of that way.
Nearby, the goat-soldiers push back the two men who try to block Dulcinea's way. "We're hungry," one says gruffly, and shows evil looking sharp teeth. "Give me a reason to fillet you, sweet meat."
(Dulcinea's connection betrays her! We draw a polite veil over the terrifying events within the cave!)
Errol leads the western group, and a brash lieutenant the east. Both teams are poised to converge at the same time upon the apparent cavemouth.
There are seven spear-wielding goatheaded soldiers there, ready and waiting on the western side. They spring out to face Errol and his men, and the leader shouts "BLOOD!" From within the cave mouth, an answering cry, and the sound of movement.
The goatmen stab at Errol with their spears, confident in the element of surprise they do not, in fact, possess.
Errol hauls out his broadsword with both hands, interposing its length between himself and the lead goatfellow. With what might seem to be a dancestep, he glides forward, tips the spearpoint aside, and severs the beasts arm at it shoulder. Before it can utter a sound, he is upon the next in line, his blade emitting a faint moaning sound and an incandescent glow.
The one with the severed arm gouts blood, screaming with a high pitched squeal more animal than human. His blood is red, splashing onto the white snow. The others fight with single minded ferocity, but only the one that targets one of Errol's companions manages to get so much as a touch with his spear.
A tall goatman with an eyepatch stands in the mouth of the cave, holding Dulcinea by the hair, a serrated blade at her throat. "Throw down your weapons!" he demands.
Errol lifts his chin and lowers his blade, jamming its point into the crimson snow about him. "I shant throw it," he calls, shaking his hands loose at his sides.
The goat man shakes Dulcinea with one hand, so that her head snaps back and forth until she draws herself up again, dignified as only a lady of Amber can be. "Dropping is fine. And your pretty fellows."
Errol eases the daggers from his sleeves into his gloves with barely a motion - for he turns to gesture to those behind him. "Lower your swords," he commands, then turns back to stride forward a pace or two. "Release her and we shall leave you to your cave."
The slit pupilled golden eyes look to left and right, observing the carnage enacted by Errol, and then he says, "No." He steps back into the shadows, and kicks at a lever with one cloven hoof.
Triggered by his action, small rocks begin to shower from the cave mouth. The goat man's hand is still covering her mouth, preventing her from speaking.
Errol tugs his blade from the ground and sprints after Eye Patch, hefting the sword to rest on one shoulder as he runs.
There scarcely seems time, but he makes it through, and a large slab of rock thuds down behind Errol's heels, plunging the cave inside into near darkness.
There is the sound of scuffling then a curse, then a scraping of cloth on rock. Dulcinea's voice can be heard, but no words, muffled by her captor's hand it seems, yet it provides information because it is rapidly becoming distant.
The broadsword in Errol's hands gives off an errie green glow in the half-light, possibly illuminating the way ahead as he chases after the muffled sound. Metal boots clank along stone.
The greenish light illuminates a small opening in the rock to the left, and a large one to the right. A group of the soldiers are in there, guarded by more goatmen, who snarl but do not leave their captives. One points to the small opening. "He took her down there! The hole!" one shouts urgently. His cry is cut off by the knife of one of his captors.
"You’re trapped here," one of the goat men says. "She will be back soon, and you'll be sorry."
A dagger flickers from Errol's offhand toward the goat man who spoke, then he is all high steps and a plunge down the chute. The ride downward would be fun, were it not for the circumstances, and he stumbles a step forward once he comes to his feet.
The dagger does its work, landing in a quivering red mess through one of the goatish eyes.
When Errol reaches the rock chamber below, the leader of the goatmen whirls, and says, "Fool!" He steps away from Dulcinea's still, crumpled form. "I'll drink your blood. No, I'll drink hers first and make you watch." His serrated blade glitters in the light of Errol's broadsword.
Beside a wide stream of dark water a second man lies, in the uniform of Chantris' troops. One dead hand dangles in the stream.
There is sorrow in the glance Errol gives Dulcinea's crumpled form, but it is brief, and schooled quickly. His rage it not so easily hidden. "You will need a throat to drink, beast. I shall give you an instant to armor it." A heartbeat's pause. "Time's up."
The goatmen lowers his head and charges, like his animal counterpart, and slashes with his blade.
Errol waits and waits. He waits until the last possible moment to dodge, such that the blade digs into the mail of his shoulder with his sidestep. Then the green glow leaves an arc through the air; the broadsword bits into the creatures neck with all the strength the Feldane can muster.
The head flies off, trailing red across the room, and lands with a splash in the water. Leaving them in an empty room, with a sheer chute and the deep, cold stream.
Errol cleans the blood from his blade on the leader's rags and sets his sword to rest over his shoulder. Three paces bring him to Dulcinea's side, and he dips to one knee to clear the hair from her lidded eyes. Gathering her limp form into his arms he rises, draws a deep breath, and plunges into the stream, swimming toward safety and sanity.
It might be a long swim...