[Log] Against the Scourge
Who: Christoph Schmidt, Gwen Meynolt, Leonid Barthalomew the Revered (NPC'd by Simon Parker), Lord Tyrosus Maxwell (NPC'd by Simon Parker), Simon Parker, Tepet Tilis Tirana, Vent
Where: Light's Hope Chapel - Eastern Plaguelands - Azeroth - Fantasy Sector
When: 23 August 2008
What: Still left with the runeblade that the Death Knight, Baron Devon Sunderland, had wielded; the IPA agents take the cursed weapon directly to the Argent Dawn for safe destruction. That seems to be the end of the necromantic attacks against the Kingdom of Ivalice - or is it?
Watch For: The Happy Healing Song. ...No, seriously. D:
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Ser Dragonsbane. I received your message. Have you any agents that may be knowledgable in the safe destruction of this cursed artefact? I was going to take the blade to the Time-Space Administration Bureau, but thought that perhaps those from your own plane may have knowledge of it."
Master Sergeant Christoph Schmidt says, "...Hauptmann? Was going to have you bring it to...hm."
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "Yes ma'am. The Argent Dawn is well familiar with handling these kinds of things. I'd meant to speak to them tonight but was forced to ask Kellen Firestorm to go in my stead due to unexpectedly falling down the elevator off Aldor Rise."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "Captain Oaks, if I may escort you to whatever destination you select to receive the blade?"
Simon Parker | Pat, absent-mindedly: "That thing's a killer."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Certainly, Factotum."
Simon Parker says, "Captain."
Vent says, "I'll help, if you want. I'm used to this kind of thing."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Yes, the Argent Dawn. Ser Feverfew spoke of something to that effect; I could not remember the organisation's name."
Zack Fair says, "Hey... Captain Oaks?"
Simon Parker ...audible PING!
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Ser Fair...?"
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "Argent Dawn, I believe?"
Zack Fair says, "Uh.."
Simon Parker salutes. "Simon Parker, acting Argent Dawn commissioned agent, speaking."
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "They're good people. If you're stopped by humans in red and white tabards, that's probably the, uh, Scarlet Crusade. Don't let them kill you, they get feisty."
Zack Fair says, "Well, I tho-...."
Simon Parker says, "...Goddammit, why does that happen every time?"
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "...Parker?"
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "Part of the enchantment, sir!"
Vent says, "Well, that was strange."
Simon Parker says, "I just put on my Argent Dawn commission so they'd know- Oh."
Zack Fair says, "..."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "..."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "How odd..."
Zack Fair says, "... well, it's nothing important. Just, gimme a call when you get the chance, would you?"
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "It helps, otherwise the scourgestones might make you sick!"
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Aye. Well, best we take this cursed thing as soon as possible. Perhaps it's better not to take it from its lockbox until we reach our destination; Alkoun will be able to carry the weight."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Of course, ser."
Simon Parker says, "Don't let Alkoun drink the water, or eat anything, while we're there."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Perhaps after this is through with."
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "I'll call ahead and see if Kellen made it yet, they'll know you're coming if so. Reception in the Plaguelands can be pretty bad due to the necropolises though, so stay on the road!"
Master Sergeant Christoph Schmidt says, "Am coming."
Zack Fair says, "Aft.. .. yeah, sure, alright. When you get back, right?"
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Aye, Ser Dragonsbane. -And aye, Ser Fair."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "I shall depart at once."
Vent says, "On my way."
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "Nnnnn.. if I didn't rely on the healing of a feral druid.. I'd come as well.."
Tepet Tilis Tirana says, "Cooomiiiiiing~"
The Eastern Plaguelands might accurately be named 'Hell on Earth'. The effects of the Plague of Undeath are everywhere-vegetation rots in the ground, resembling nothing so much as decaying flesh, and the only animals left unaffected by the plague are the carrion worms, grubs the size of dogs... or larger. The sky is an uneasy rust-red, and cloud-choked.
Perhaps the IPA was expecting something grander when they heard the name 'Light's Hope Chapel', but the Argent Dawn's headquarters resembles nothing so much as a dilapidated one-room church, left over from the days when this land was full of life. Patrols of soldiers in gleaming armor and black-and-white tabards guard the area, protecting it from the undead.
Simon Parker takes the lead, guiding his chocobo, Octavian, along the path leading up to the chapel. Two guards-one human man and one orcish woman-approach. "Halt!" the man orders.
"It's okay," Simon says, tapping the Argent Dawn commission fastened to his jacket. "Call me Parker, I've done work for you people before. We're here because we've got a dangerous artifact that needs to be disposed of. If we could speak to Lord Maxwell Tyrosus?"
"Lord Tyrosus?" says the orc woman. "He hasn't granted audience to anyone in years, what do you-"
Simon leans forward, Octavian balking, and whispers something. Her eyes go wide beneath her visor. "This way, please."
Both soldiers retreat into the chapel post-haste.
The Scourge seems to touch all corners of the world, in Azeroth. There are few places where its influence doesn't seem to reach, either in words or, in the shocking cases of the Plaguelands, in action and deed.
As its name implies, this tortured, broken land bears witness to the Plague as no other place in Azeroth does. Agrias Oaks may be no druid, but this land is heartwrenching to look upon. The ravages of this place... she can only imagine what befell those that once lived here.
The Holy Knight follows directly behind Simon's chocobo. Alkoun is loaded down with his usual complement of battle supplies, but he also bears a bound, locked, chained chest on his back, directly behind Agrias. She seems to sit forward in the saddle as though to better avoid contact with the thing; those with supernatural senses may be sent reeling by the sheer necromantic power emanating from the thing.
Agrias pulls her bird up short. It may look like a hawkstrider, to the Argent Dawn, but it's too stocky; too heavily-built. There's nothing gracile about Alkoun, particularly in his full barding for war. Agrias herself wears her armour, Defender sheathed at her hip.
She looks uneasy, sidling her bird closer to Simon's and casting a sidelong glance to him. "They do not trust outsiders? I was told by Ser Feverfew that I should speak with the Argent Dawn..." She falls silent for a moment, Alkoun tossing his head and jingling the harness. Agrias watches the honour guard retreat, before turning half a glance back towards Simon. "They /can/ destroy it," she murmurs quietly, "right?"
Vent is an odd duck. He came here with Simon, Agrias, and the others. He did not, however, bring a chocobo. Or any other kind of riding beast. Or even a vehicle.
No, he /walked/. And used his dash thrusters, but still.
The ZX Saber is stowed at Vent's hip, but other than that he has no visible weapons. He comes to a stop and folds his arms over his chest as the others pull up short, glancing around the area with a sober expression on his face; this place kind of reminds him of some of the places that haven't quite healed from the Maverick wars. As he watches the exchange, however, Vent moves a little closer to Simon's chocobo and asks: "So, shall we all go in, or do you want some of us to wait outside?"
And again, Christoph finds himself wondering if there's some way to get his car cleared for transport through magical realms. He's just not very good with animals, and always feels vaguely at unease when having to ride on one. But for now, he stolidly puts up with leading his horse, an armored white steed, through the unholy blight on the face of Azeroth known as the Plaguelands.
This place is terrible. Absolutely. And very, very fittingly the place that might have spawned that wretch, Herr Baron von Sunderland. He does not have his hand on Balmung, worn in plan view at his side, but there is the sense that he is ready to draw it out at an instant's notice. A vomitous yellow sky, rotted earth, and the faint moans of the undead will do that to a person.
He spurs his horse on a little further forward, pulling abreast with Agrias and Simon right after the guard draws back into the small chapel. "If they are familiar with this...then hopefully they know. At least, able to contain it somehow. Otherwise...."
He looks around at the place. "Can wait outside," he says, at Vent's comment. "Building is small enough to join quickly if needed."
It's a little unfortunate that this call out was on such short notice. While the Guvner had certain supplies on hand in her office, not all of what she would normally bring with her on such a venture is immediately available. Time, however, is of the essence here. And so Gwen arrives on borrowed chocobo, sitting sidesaddle. Unfortunately also, she was unable to retrieve her normal outfit for extended adventuring; yes, that means she's wearing a skirt.
It's not entirely easy to guide the chocobo this way. Of course, Gwen never has much luck riding, but at least this chocobo seems to be fairly mild, if a bit on the dullbrained side. She has to make sure, of course, to keep it following the others, but at least it doesn't appear to be as panicky as the one she road a few weeks ago.
This is Gwen's first visit in the Plaguelands, and after a several shocked comments in regards to the state of the place, she's fallen more or less silent, glancing around the place now and again. While her expression is fairly stoic, there's a hint of abject horror; the diviner's had to deal with undead horrors before, of course, but this is, quite rightly so, a fiendish landscape. There is but one eventual comment on the matters at hand, "I understand. I shall remain outside. My appearance would be... unfortunately unfamiliar, likely."
Trotting along in the IPA party train is a rather unsettled and nervous young woman. She's withdrawn herself into her bright red cape and cloak as if hoping that the cloth would shield her from the horrors of the horrible horrible landscape beyond. She nudges her chocobo on with whispered breath, bright blue eyes occasionally peeking out before she squeaks and disappears within the cloak again.
Tirana had decided that she had enough of learning about the IPA, and decided to be a more active part of it. When volunteers were sought for the mission to Argent Dawn, she readily joined up because what was scary about someplace with such a powerful Realm-like name like 'Argent Dawn?' She'd also totally get to ride a giant chicken too. Giant. Chicken.
As it was, she only learned about the Plaguelands once they got there, and no amount of singing was going to bring this place back to paradise. So she trudges along with the group, halting her chocobo along with the others, and mewing a muted 'Do we have to stay out here?' look to Christoph's response. Re-assuring herself that everything's alright, she starts to sing a song she learned while on her learning trips these past couple of weeks. "All dressed up and nowhere to go, walking with a dead man over my shoulder..."
"Dragonsbane said they could," Parker says, to his Captain. He hops off Octavian's back, takes the chocobo's reins, and leads it over to where a number of other pack animals are left to lounge-there's horses there, a solitary kodo, and a hawkstrider or two.
One of the striders gives Alkoun a distinctly ugly look.
"The demon ties Octavian's reins to the hitching post, leaving the chocobo enough slack to move about of his own volition. One of the guards-the orc woman, again-answers Vent's question on Parker's behalf. "There is room enough," she says. "Enter. It's better than waiting in this wasted land." She gives the group a surprisingly friendly 'come in' gesture, and follows Simon as he enters the tiny chapel.
There is, indeed, room enough inside-there's a long banquet table, converted into a place to store charts and the like-in the middle of the room. Standing at the head is a graying man with an eyepatch; the paladin Lord Maxwell Tyrosus. Standing at his right hand is a... another man, but this one has clearly been dead for some time. Leonid Bartholomew the Revered approaches the group, bows with the sound of creaking bones and straining necrotic flesh, and turns to Simon. "Baron Sunderland was a good friend of mine," the undead says, somberly. "It is good that he finally has the rest he deserves."
Tyrosus is a bit more businesslike-he approaches the group, and crosses his arms across his chest. "Have you brought the runeblade?"
Agrias slides down from the saddle, hissing as she hits the ground too hard on her crippled leg. She takes him over to where Octavian was tied, though, quickly and efficiently guiding the reins through a slipknot.
The parcel on the chocobo's back earns a little more care; Agrias unstraps the leather that had held it down carefully. Once that's done, she pulls it off his back, hefting it up once she lets it ease down far enough.
"We thank you, dame." A formal title for what appears to be a formal knight, within this organisation. Agrias nods her head briefly to the orc woman. She doesn't have the facilities to bow properly, but her look of relief is plain. Making her allies wait in this ruined land would do worse for their nerves than anything that could happen inside.
She sets the parcel down before Tyrosus with a grunt, stepping back and offering the lord a deep and formal bow.
"We brought it at all haste, my lord. It is wrapped in oilcloth, and has not been removed from this bound chest since its recovery. Furthermore, it has been locked in my personal office, and placed under guard. I have not been near it."
Leonid Bartholomew earns a bit of a look, but Agrias only shakes her head. She sounds uneasy when she speaks. "If it be any consolation, ser, he was smiling when I slew him." How do you say something like that gracefully, anyway? "I suppose he must have known he would find peace soon." She offers a shallower, but no less formal, bow to the Forsaken. "I am sorry, ser."
To Tyrosus she turns next. "This is the runeblade, ser. I thank you for dealing with this on such short notice. I am only sorry it could not have been brought sooner."
Vent nods as the orc woman invites them in. Well, that solved that problem. He nods slightly to acknowledge the invitation, before walking in with the others. Vent pauses to look around the room...Bartholomew is given a somewhat wary look, but Agrias doesn't seem too freaked out so he assumes he shouldn't be. The Mega Man simply folds his arms over his chest and looks around for any sign of trouble...he assumes there isn't going to be any, so hopefully all the sturm and drang turns out to be for naught.
Christoph pauses a moment, looks over at Tirana when she makes that tiny, uncomfortable noise. This is not a place for a singing princess, indeed. There are no happy tunes to be found here, only dirges and death rattles. With a slight inclination of his head toward the chapel, he seems to encourage her to go within once entry is allowed. He doesn't like this place either, but he may be able to hold up to it better than she.
Whatever happens, he swings a leg around and stiffly dismounts, wincing faintly as he straightens his knees out. Yeah, not much of a horse rider, this one. He watches the others, hears the invitation, and-well, there are many guards outside, and the Argent Dawn are supposed to be friendly. To remain outside may be construed as an insult. Thus, after allowing the others to enter before him, the battlemage brings up the rear.
He does stay near the door, though.
A quick, almost cursory glance over the interior of the chapel-it is indeed roomier than he imagined. He is brought up short, momentarily, at the sight of Bartholomew, bristling for an instant, but his readings about the Forsaken come to mind quickly and he relaxes. Fractionally.
He does not speak, first saluting silently as they speak, and then nodding slightly at the question regarding Rimehowl. And as if by a magnet, his gaze is drawn to said blade, covered and secured, when Agrias lays it out on the table.
He does not feel an unearthly pull toward it, and for that, he is thankful.
They can go inside? Sure, its only a rickety rundown chapel, but hey - walls are walls. Tirana hastily dismounts her chocobo and unhitches the bow and quiver she had strapped to its back. Hiking both over her shoulder, she follows the party inside while still singing the strange melody to herself, "Waiting for an invitation to arrive, going to a party but noone's still alive..."
"Going to a party but no... one's... still... alive?" The song comes to a choking, almost strangled, halt as soon as Tirana catches sight of Leonid. If nobody had noticed her eyes, they might do so now that they're growing to the size of saucers. She glances away from the undead hurriedly, bundling up further inside her cloak as she switches to a more re-assuring stanza, "Don't run away, its only me. Don't be afraid of what you can't see..."
While it's a lot easier for Gwen to just slip off the chocobo like this, she still stumbles a moment when she touches ground. At least, she doesn't fall over this time? The reins are tied to the post, following Agrias' lead. Fortunately, the diviner's more adept with her hands than with her feet. Her pack, too, is retrieved from the back of the bird. Maybe it would be best to keep her supplies on hand, in the event of an incident.
"My thanks," Gwen replies to the woman inviting her in. Certainly, she's used to being treated with a certain level of suspicion due to her heritage. Perhaps her appearance is even more strange to people of other worlds. Still, it's much better being a part of things than remaining outside.
Entering the small chapel, Gwen moves to one side, allowing Agrias and the others the right of way. Certainly, they are the bearers of the object of interest, here. There's a flicker of pity in her eyes at the words of the undead warrior. "My sympathies. Thankfully he is at peace now," she murmurs, her gaze lingering on Leonid perhaps a tad too long. Judging from the presence of the others, his current state is likely of no great concern, but an undead being, a peaceful one... how strange. Perhaps there will be time for questions later.
There's a bit of a shudder as the parcel's set down. Entropy's strong about it, strong enough for the negative-touched genasi to be able to feel its chill a degree at this distance, even if it's still enclosed in the chest. "By the Binder," Gwen murmurs, shaking her head slightly.
Leonid gives a stiff, formal nod to the woman that killed one of his oldest friends. "He must've known. Somewhere, in the depths of the soul, he must've known what he'd become, thanks to that accursed sword. It will not corrupt another. That is all the vengeance I seek." The undead man looks stoic in the face of Tirana's fear, and makes a simple 'peace' gesture with his hand. "Fear not," he says, in a voice that's surprisingly gentle despite the raspiness. "The Light may have forsaken me, but I have not forsaken the Light."
Simon looks distinctly uneasy as Agrias sets the necrotic blade down on the table, casing and all. "Open it," he says. "Unless they can destroy the whole thing in one go-" Tyrosus shakes his head, settling that matter.
"Remove it," the Paladin says. "But don't lay hands on it any longer than necessary."
Agrias sets the chest on the table, with obvious relief. Not only is that chest maddeningly heavy, but she's starting to feel uneasy with all of this attention on her. She is a Holy Knight - admittedly close to a Paladin - and feels nothing issuing from it.
The knight takes from her belt a small ring of keys, jingling as she unlocks the padlocks that bind the chest's chains. Another set of keys unlocks the iron rings around the chest. A final key unlocks the large lock that guards the chest itself, the lock itself snapping open and hitting the table with a dull, anticlimactic 'thunk.'
Agrias throws the chest open, the lid squealing on old hinges. She hesitates, though, before reaching for the oilcloth, pulling a pair of rawhide gloves from her belt. She dons those before carefully flipping aside the oilcloth and exposing the blade itself.
Rimehowl could be a brother to Gressil, the Dawn of Ruin. Its runes are the same shade as the abyss between glaciers, and the blade itself is so dark as to swallow the ambient light around it.
Agrias draws back from the thing with a faint hiss. "Cursed thing," she says, voice low. "I do not feel anything from it, but I mislike it all the same. It has too much the bearing of a Zodiac Stone."
She steps away, letting the Argent Dawn close in on the cursed artefact. "Do away with it as necessary. I'll not suffer this... this /thing/ in my office any longer." Already whisking the gloves off, she ties them back at her belt with a glower fixed towards the cursed sword.
...One overly superstitious could almost swear the thing glowers /back/, as though it were appreciative of the attention.
Vent's interest seems to pick up as the sword is revealed. He was expecting some kind of reaction, and he's not disappointed...he frowns slightly as the air temperature in the room seems to drop. But the illusion quickly fades with a shake of the head....he's dealt with dozens of items with this kind of power, after all. He folds his arms over his chest and watches intently, curious to see what kind of fate awaits the cursed object.
Tirana is given a somewhat-concerned look. He doesn't say anything outright because he doesn't want to embarrass a fellow warrior, however. He's somewhat of a latecomer to this whole situation, though, so he's content to observe for now.
Forsaken by the Light, but not forsaking it in turn? Christoph blinks slowly at this. But is he.... No, never mind. He is not a philosopher, and there are more important things to be worrying about than odd little things like that. He just, instead, nods again, quietly. By many accounts, death knights were not always completely willing in their plunge into darkness. Perhaps there was a remnant of that here.
While at other times, Tirana's reactions might have been amusing-but even in those times, he wouldn't have laughed. Instead, at this time, he moves closer to the others, leaving the doorway to, hopefully, provide a reassuring presence. And perhaps, for himself to receive a bit of reassurance still. This Chapel of Light's Hope is a good measure better than outdoors, but this is still in the midst of the Plaguelands.
The request to uncover the sword is given, and he tenses. Quickly, he looks between the sword and Agrias, back to the sword, then back to the Holy Knight. What will this show? What will she say? He folds his arms across his chest, incidentally bringing his right hand just a little closer to Balmung's hilt. Incidentally.
Her words...are good ones. Ones he likes hearing from her. And yet, he can't help but stay wary, shown by a furrow that stays on his brow. Finally saying the first words since entering the Chapel, he asks, "How will you destroy it?" His voice hangs in the air, accent seemingly heavier in the dank atmosphere. It is a question worth bringing up: artifacts of power are rarely just shattered with simple force, after all.
Tirana's reaction gets another flicker of pity in Gwen's eyes; it's understandable why many would react in such a way, isn't it? The historian is curious herself, in fact; benign undead are not well-known where she comes from, although perhaps not impossible. "It is alright, miss," she says, attempting to sound soothing. Poor girl.
Gwen says nothing as Agrias works open all the locks on the chest, simply watching the Holy Knight unveil the sword. Her gaze is perhaps best described as the intense stare of someone who is at once highly curious and yet expecting the very worst to be revealed before them. The vague sense of entropic power grows stronger as the sword is further exposed to the room, culminating in a momentary wince from Gwen when the oilcloth is unwrapped. In fact, she has to look away; there's something uncomfortable about the runes. ...Wizards who try to interprete what's beyond their abilities only invite disaster upon themselves.
The girl nods back to Gwen, she doesn't seem quite as scared now. Some people have steely resolve, others have to sing their fears away. Not that unveiling ancient demonic artifacts will help matters any, Tirana swears she can see infinity in the depths of the sword. Which is completely horrifying as swords don't have depths! Her singing stops right then and there, and she doesn't hesitate to start shuffling towards Christoph while keeping her gaze straight on the sword. He's strong enough, he should be handy as a hero in a pinch. Or a meatshield.
Simon Parker's breath catches in his throat as Rimehowl is laid out on the table for all to see. A chill runs down his spine, and the air temperature seems to turn positively glacial-to say nothing of the necrotic energies leaking from the blade, which are enough to make his stomach churn. The whole room suddenly reeks of death.
"Well?" Parker says, a little irritably, "The sooner we dispose of this thing, the better. For Sunderland, and all the other victims of the Scourge!" The demon manages a half-hearted look of determination. This thing... is pretty damn powerful. He /hopes/ the Argent Dawn can destroy it.
"Patience," Leonid says, settling a rotting hand on Parker's shoulder. The demon grits his teeth, but does nothing more. "Let Lord Maxwell work."
And Lord Maxwell does work. The Paladin grimaces as he sees the blade, but steels himself and grits his teeth. "Light aid me," he says, sinking to a knee in prayer. "For the souls of all those lost. I pray, help me /end this abomination/."
It might just be a trick of the light, but Maxwell is momentarily enveloped in a faint glow trickling down through the roof of the chapel. The Paladin reaches for the Libram strapped to his belt, cracks it open, and starts to read. As he does, the book and his hands start to glow.
Rimehowl sits there on the table. Lord Maxwell rises, stands over it, and grits his teeth-he levels both hands over the weapon, and in a voice powerful enough to rattle the timbers of the chapel, he cries: "BE PURGED BY THE LIGHT!"
Light pours into the cursed weapon. It jitters, defiantly, rattling on the table-then cracks start appearing in its surface. The Runeblade starts to smoke; it lets out an unholy tripartate wail as it seems to combust...
And then explode. Fragments fly everywhere, punching holes in the walls of the chapel. Part of the blade breaks off and flies towards Agrias-perhaps Rimehowl's being perverse in its death.
But in the end, all that's left is ashes.
The Holy Knight takes a step away from the table once she's laid bare the cursed artefact, the better for the Argent Dawn to work their cleansing rites on it. She'll be glad when this whole affair is seen to and done. Part of her idly considers contacting the Relief Society to help repair the graveyards that were damaged, and offer some solace to the dead.
She watches as the paladin begins his rites, golden eyes curious as she sees and feels the welcome, clean burn of holy energies. He opens the sacred text, and Agrias watches the blade all the more intently, as though waiting for it to do something; uneasy. Colour her pessimistic, but some part of her just doesn't think it's going to be that easy.
It never was, with the Zodiac Stones. Things were always far more bloody and difficult before the situation was done with.
The Holy Knight gives a sharp yelp as a sliver of the blade is flung towards her, too quickly for her to do much more than whip her head aside at the force of the impact. It draws a ragged line of red along one cheek, leaving a thin wash of blood down the length of the side of her face.
A little stunned, she reaches up, touching two fingers to the blood and staring at them dumbly. "What is this?" Agrias demands, angrily. "Does it seek to lash out even in death?" She shakes her head, cupping the side of her face to try and staunch what blood she can. "Is that all, then? It is... it is destroyed?"
She sounds hopeful. It'll be good not to have that uncomfortable presence in her office any more, or the vague suspicion that she was housing some sort of sword-shaped time bomb. From the way her coworkers were hounding her about that thing, it may as well have been.
She moves her hand to check the blood, grimacing. It may not be a very wide cut, but apparently it's run deep. "Has anyone any bandages?"
Vent is content to watch, though he gets a slightly ominous feeling when the blade starts to move...and it only gets worse when it starts to smoke. At that point, Vent goes for the ZX Saber. By the time the blade actually explodes, Vent already has his weapon in hand.
He brings it up and across his body, activating the triangular blade with a snap-hiss as plasma quickly ionizes the air in its path. Several fragments of the blade hiss as they touch the energy saber and melt away; one bounces off of the crystal mounted on the forehead of Vent's helmet. Thankfully none of them (that he's aware of anyway) struck home. "Well, that was kind of anti-climactic..." the Mega Man observes, before deactivating his weapon and holstering it again. He looks around to check on the others. "Everyone else okay?" To Agrias, however, he gives an apologetic shrug. "Sorry...I don't really use bandages myself."
Large battle-trained Belkans make good meatshields indeed. It's a role that Christoph is used to, so he makes no visible reaction when Tirana steps near to him. He does feel the change in the air as the sword continues to be exposed to view, to light, to life. It is unpleasant, but he can bear this. He's borne worse before.
Simon's words do not stir him, but he looks sharply at Maxwell when the man steps forward. A prayer, an appeal to a higher power. Is that what it will take to break the ruined blade? And to his eyes, sensitive to the flows of magic, there is a trace of strange light that moves from above into the man. Again, a strange, unknown magic like the runeblade-but warm and reassuring, instead of cold and deathly.
His stare then shifts to the libram: even more of the holy energy contained in there. Words, incantations, he hears but does not understand. Only the last words-the order to be cleansed.
"Gott in Himmel!" he says reflexively as he feels the energy vibrating through the room, calling on a God that he doesn't really believe in. But in this case, appropriate, isn't it? The blade shudders, then sunders and as the fragments fly, Christoph yanks Balmung from his hip-still within the sheath, now glowing a fractured pale blue with a hastily activated shielding spell-to block them from not just himself, but also Tirana and Gwen. A shard flying toward Agrias-he cannot stop that, only shout, "Hauptmann, look out!"
Too late, but at least the wound is nothing more than a gash on her cheek. He sighs, shaking his head; one small fragment bounced off the patchwork shield spell and ricocheted into the roof above. "Would not be surprised," he says, in response to her question. "Intelligent weapons exist." He indicates Balmung, which he then hangs again on his hip.
He doesn't carry a first aid kit, so he can only shake his head. But then, something else occurs to him, as he remembers that the blade seemed to feed on its victims. "Hauptmann Oaks...your...do you feel anything from the cut?" A pause. "...besides pain."
Artifacts aren't easy to destroy. Some need to be cast into the forge that created them, others might need to be interred in a specific location. Perhaps it's fortunate that an apparent solution to the presence of the blade is so easily at hand. Gwen's attention, now, is towards Lord Maxwell as he reads from his holy book. The diviner, in fact, raises a hand to her chest, her lips moving in a prayer of her own to her god. Certainly, a foul device being destroyed would be something Oghma would smile upon...
Her words stop short with a gasp, though, as the blade screams in protest, its unholy wailing causing Gwen to step back a step and raise a hand. In fact, any who are familiar with the diviner will recognize the beginnings of a spell's gestures. This is again entirely cut short when the sword explodes; Gwen lets out a short cry of surprise and covers her face with her arm. For whatever reason, though, despite the total destruction of the sword, no one appears injured... save Agrias. Thankfully, the wound appears minor. "Captain Oaks!" she cries out, before stooping to open her pack. It's not exactly the best of kits, but... "Here, make use of this," the diviner entreats, approaching the knight and handing over the small kit. There's not much in there but what's basically found in a first aid kit; at least Gwen took this from the IPA supplies and didn't bring one from her home.
It's strange, the brighter the light and the louder the incantation, the more Tirana actually steps away from her tank. In fact, she's actually taking a couple tepid steps towards the sword, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the whole ritual. "Amazing," she whispers to nobody in particular, only to chirp an excited eek once the sword starts to rattle and break. Its then that she turns not to Christoph, but to a nearby support pillar for cover just before things literally go up in smoke.
Once that clears, she emerges again, noting part of the blade embedded in the same pillar. She dares not touch it, instead edging away warily lest it leap out and do really bad things. There's no need to ask if anyone's OK, she caught sight of Agrias's cut and is already halfway to the door. "I brought some in my pack, I'll be right back!"
Or she could just use the pack that Gwen gave Agrias. "Oh!" Tirana redirects herself back in their direction, takes the pack in hand with a grateful nod, and starts laying out the bandages and disinfectants and whatnot. "I still haven't quite picked up the hang of these, but it shouldn't be too hard..."
The dust settles. Leonid and Lord Maxwell return to their places at the table-the latter looks somewhat woozy, but he just channeled a great deal of divine energy through a tainted weapon that would otherwise be indestructible. Give him a few moments. It's this wooziness that keeps him from simply healing Agrias' wound.
Simon, meanwhile, is muttering about a long gash in the side of his sleeve. The Rimehowl-fragment that flew at him drew no blood, but it ruined a perfectly good suit jacket. "Is everyone else okay?" Parker asks. "Captain, are you... well?"
For a moment, Agrias doesn't move. It's a little unnerving to have everybody staring at her as though she suddenly contracted rabies.
"I... am fine," she states, uncertainly. Her hesitation is more on the part of their worry, though, and less about her own physical or mental state of being. She takes another moment to watch them watching her, blood seeping slowly around her fingers.
"Just bleeding," she comments wryly. Her eyes flick over towards Gwen when the Factotum approaches with the first aid kit, bobbing her head slightly in gratitude. "Thank you, Factotum."
With quick, efficient motions she dabs the blood out of the wound, scrubs away any smears left, and applies a little disinfectant for good measure. That done, she stretches a bandage over it, poking it lightly until it sticks, hissing. "That stings."
Her hands, however, are still bloody from where she had tried to stop it. She sighs, settling for wiping it off on her cloak. There are wonderful cleaning agents beyond the Gates that make removing blood from garments a relatively simple matter, really.
...Ovelia might yell at her for coming home with blood smeared over part of her clothing, though, perhaps drawing the wrong conclusion. Agrias winces upon realising this fact, but turns towards the two Argent Dawn warriors.
"Well, we thank you for your service, Lord Maxwell." She lets her hands drop, clenching a fist and unclenching it experimentally, as though checking for a moment once Parker asks his question. "Aye. I am well."
She turns a slow circle, looking up at the slivers and fragments of Rimehowl embedded... well, pretty much everywhere. She glances back towards Leonid, brow furrowing a bit in mild puzzlement. One bloodied hand points up towards where a few pieces are stuck into the ceiling, like miniature javelins. "What are you going to do about those?"
Vent nods slightly. "Yeah, I'm fine." Well, the worst that came of it was a minor scratch...as far as Vent's concerned, everything's worked out. He takes a step forward, his gaze happening to wander to the tiny holes in the wall that he passes. He frowns slightly, and gives a slight bow before glancing over at the other IPA members as if to say 'am I doing this right?' before turning his attention back to Lord Maxwell. "Err...sorry for the damage to your chapel. I don't think any of us were expecting it to be quite that....ah...reactive." Thankfully this wasn't his fault, or he might have to pay for it. Usually he takes his artifacts out back before nuking them, see. Responsible lad.
Christoph had been tracking Tirana's movements, but did not stop her from moving forward. He would have stopped her if she'd gotten close enough to touch it, but in the end, she retreated on her own, so all's well. He warily glances around at the holes left in the walls and beams, shaking his head slightly. A minor miracle that there weren't any other injuries, and that the single one inflicted was light.
At least, in the physiological sense.
But he is worried more about what Rimehowl may have attempted-or accomplished-in its death throes. And yes, he is thinking that it was purposeful, not just an accident, thus his question of Agrias. He glances at Simon as the other man asks the same thing.
She seems all right, though, at least for now. "Sehr gut," he grunts, nodding, and relaxes again. Very well. "But if something strange does happen...." The rest goes unsaid-she should be wise enough to get it checked out if anything untoward occurs.
He too turns his eyes upward when the other remnants are pointed out. "Good question," he murmurs.
Of course, there is a little bit of worry about the wound, or, rather what caused the wound, as she allows Tirana to lay claim to the kit and treat Agrias. However, does it necessarily always follow that a cursed wound would cause what Thaelarion had spoke of, corruption? Jumping to such a conclusion, of course, would be far too hasty, and would hardly help anyone at the moment. One step at a time...
Agrias' reaction, though, she concludes, is a good one. "You are quite welcome. Thankfully, the injury appears to be, ah, minor," she says, smiling back at the knight briefly. "It's quite fortunate no one appears to have..." and here she squints for a moment at Simon. No, just a tear in a sleeve, there. "...No major injuries," the diviner concludes, before adding, peering up at the wound on Agrias' face with a momentary adjustment of the glasses on her face, "According to those of my fellows who study the body... wounds on the face simply bleed more freely."
And then Gwen takes a few steps back, and gazes up at the ceiling where Agrias indicates. "...Mother of magic," she breathes, "Those must be dealt with, in the eventuality they still retain essences of the curse..."
"I wasn't expecting that, either," the Paladin grunts, to Vent. He shakes his head, and puts a hand to his forehead. He looks up at the ceiling as Agrias points out the Rimehowl-bits stuck in the rafters, and frowns, thoughtfully. "I'll get them down myself," Maxwell states. "And clean this mess up. That cursed blade holds no more power, I made certain of it."
Simon looks up as well. He narrows his eyes, squinting at the fragments of the blade. "Lingering Essence," he whispers. "But the bulk of it has dissipated. It shouldn't be powerful enough to harm anyone, much less possess someone."
Or Agrias could just tend to the wound herself. Tirana blinks in surprise as the knight takes the bandage by the horns, and she sits and waits for her to finish before dutifully packing up the rest of the first aid kit. The threat gone, and the undead guy on their side, she's no longer a scared little Dynast. To that point, she even starts to sing, "The Happy Healing Song, sing it while you heal, the Happy Healing Song, tell us how you feel o/`"
Out of habit, she reaches out to touch Agrias on.... Tirana pauses her song to examine Agrias over, "Um, do you have any exposed flesh other than your face? I can't seem to find any under all that armor..."
Golden eyes linger on the ceiling for a moment, before Agrias reaches up to touch at her face again. The bandage seems to be sticking, much to her satisfaction, and her attention then turns towards her fellows - both those with and without the Argent Dawn.
To Tyrosus, she offers another formal bow, the likes of which she gave on her way in. "I thank you for your service today, my lord. We would have been forced to accomodate this wretched thing for... the gods only know how long, otherwise." Bad enough it was taking up space in her office. It's not very big to begin with. "I have seen the Death Knight with my own eyes; you have done the multiverse a service in destroying what Baron Sunderland had become. Is there-is there aught I might do to repay you for such a service?"
Gwen earns a brief look. "Aye, that they do. I've had wounds about the eyes, before." She gestures to indicate a faint old scar, a tiny, thin white line just above the freshly bandaged cut. "It's a bother every time," she sighs. "And it stings like mad."
To Simon, she casts a brief glance. "Aye? I feel nothing. You are my eyes and ears, in this matter... tell me if you detect any changes." She pauses, thoughtful. "Or perhaps you'd best tell Lord Maxwell. I've similar training to a warrior of the Light, or so I'm told, but there's little I can do about it. I've simply no idea of what to look for."
Ah, speaking of which. She turns towards Tyrosus. "Ah, my lord. It was also recommended that I speak with the Argent Dawn, at the behest of one... Rhomarathin Feverfew, a druid? I believe he thought I may be of some help to your Order."
There's a faint pause, in which Tiriana's song drifts through the room amongst what is otherwise total silence. Agrias glances over at her, staring somewhat oddly for a moment, before shaking her head and looking back towards Tyrosus.
"If there is aught I might do for your Order, my lord; be it in personal assistance, or aid from the Vanguard Detachment that I captain, I would be honoured to serve." She inclines her head, respectfully. "Of course, I would not wish to intrude, or to overstay my bounds." In other words, feel free to kick out the IPA contingent if they're getting in the way now.
"...I admit," she adds, a little more hesitantly, with a smile that seems a little more halting, "I am somewhat curious as to the Argent Dawn. It has been some time since I have seen an Order of knights so true and dedicated to their cause..."
Vent stares at Tirana. She's not serious, is she? Oh wait. She is. Well, there are things on his homeworld that are kind of strange too, so he manages to avoid a derisive snort or a laugh or anything. Now that everything seems to be settled, in fact, he starts to make his way to the door. "If we're wrapping up here, I should probably be going. Got my own cursed artifacts to look for, after all."
The Happy Healing song makes Christoph's eye twitch briefly. What?
Aside from that, matters appear to be closed here, though the Belkan does take a couple more looks around, eyeing the fragments here and there. The one stuck in the support beam that Tirana hid behind is close by; he walks over to it, and as he listens to Maxwell's statement that the shards are cleansed, gingerly yanks it out of the wall-holding it with his artificial hand, notably. "Does not feel...same as before," he muses. It feels cold-as according to the technological sensors embedded in his prosthetic-but simply the cold of a piece of metal at room temperature.
He waits patiently for Agrias to address the members of the Argent Dawn; he gives a grateful nod as well when she thanks them for their help. When the moment presents itself, he now speaks as well. "Vielen Dank. Many thanks from IPA SWAT and the Time Space Administration Bureau. Have learned much just from coming hier. Ah...." He holds up the piece of metal. "Permitted to keep this for study, Herr Maxwell?"
"Ah," is Gwen's singular comment in regards to the apparent harmlessness of the remaining fragments. Nonetheless, she traces an arcane gesture with one hand, murmuring a few words softly. The Guvner then slowly gazes about the room, searching out magical auras where the shards of the sword may have ended up. She's learned from experience not to look too long at her companions. For that matter, she doesn't look at the Paladin or Leonid, either, while she searches out traces of magic. A woman could go blind.
Distantly, as she works her spell, she's aware of Tirana's song. A bard, perhaps? There were things that could be woven into music that, for a lack of a better word, were magical. And it's with those thoughts that the diviner terminates her spell, her analysis of the scene complete.
There is, indeed, an old scar about the knight's eye. "A miracle you were not blinded in that eye, Captain," Gwen murmurs. A similar wound did, in fact, cause a friend to lose an eye, quite a long time ago. The Guvner, all told, has been lucky that even her grevious injuries have never cost her a limb or eye.
Either she's ignoring or ignorant of the reactions to her song, perhaps there are other matters of greater concern to Tirana. Like the fact that she's still searching for something to touch. Having no luck, she sighs and proceeds to reach out and touch the knight on an ear. "There." All she needed was a touch, Infection Banishing Prana takes care of the rest. The wound is cleansed above and beyond the disinfectant, no germs or bacteria will be harming this Holy Knight!
The Holy Knight glances towards Christoph when he holds up a minor shard of Rimehowl. It makes her a little uneasy that the pieces aren't also spiritually pulverised into dust, but at least they can make do with shattering the rest of the blade.
Absently, she reaches up to touch at the bandage covering her cheek. It still stings, in the way that a fine-honed razor cut stings. The sword was sharp when it was whole - she still bears a bandaged shoulder from that - and it managed to sting even in its sundering.
Bloody thing. She manages a brief glare towards the shards embedded in the ceiling. Serve you right, that look seems to say.
But, Gwen seizes her attention as she addresses her again. "Ah? Oh. Right. This I received in another mission. We were fighting agents of the Black Alliance... aye, I'm lucky not to have been blinded in that eye." She shakes her head. "I've yet to pay that wound back, unfortunately," she states grimly.
Oh, she will. Someday. Eventually. Maybe.
...Her gaze slides slowly over to Tirana, in the manner of somebody not quite trusting what's being done to them, or perhaps in the manner of very carefully watching somebody suspected of lunacy.
Chuckling, though, she turns towards her companions.
Tyrosus shakes his head. "We've taken care of the blade, for now, but we still have much work to be done here. Another time, perhaps."
Leonid seems to agree, looking the party over and nodding faintly, his glowing eye sockets lingering on each. "The Argent Dawn of course thanks you for bringing this cursed blade to us for cleansing. Every runeblade we destroy is another victory against the Scourge. But as Lord Maxwell claims, we've much to be getting on with, here." He gestures one mostly-skeletal hand towards the door outside. "We should be so lucky for the Scourge to collapse on itself. Unfortunately, that isn't the case, and someone must defend Azeroth from the grave threat it presents."
"As you wish, my lords." Agrias offers a short bow, all formality. "I will contact the Argent Dawn another time, then. Thank you again, my lord, for your service. Should you ever require any aid from the Vanguard or the Agency at large, do not hesitate to contact us."
"We will remember that, Captain." Leonid nods to the party, before turning to his companions in the Argent Dawn. "Farewell," he offers, over his shoulder.
Agrias also turns to face her companions, reaching up to poke the bandage back into place. "I believe that concludes our business, here." She's smiling, in the manner of somebody who's done a good thing. It must be a Paladin thing. Destroying corrupted artifacts in the name of the Light, and all. "Thank you all for your assistance. Best we return to our places, though, for the time being."
She turns, then, filing out the door from Light's Hope Chapel. Alkoun is unhitched, and she vaults into the much-lighter saddle, turning her chocobo towards the nearest path towards the Gate. That, it would seem, is that.
Or is it...?
Having been permitted to keep the fragment, Christoph snaps off another salute. "Thank you again." And he, likewise, turns and exits the Chapel, following closely behind Agrias.
It is notable that he keeps holding the fragment, as harmless as it may be, in his metal hand. You can never be too careful.
Captain Agrias Oaks sounds tired, but satisfied. "The runeblade has been destroyed." Short pause, over the jingling of a harness. "The Argent Dawn saw to its destruction personally. Master Sergeant Schmidt has retained a sliver for the study of the Time-Space Administration Bureau." Another short pause, over jingling harness. "...I now see why the Plaguelands are not recommended for travelling." Horrified, "Good /lord/... I can only imagine what destruction was wrought here."
Master Sergeant Christoph Schmidt says, "Very...unpleasant."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "Indeed..." She doesn't sound as if the visit was very comfortable.
Zack Fair sounds relieved. "Glad to hear it went well..."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "If any should see the druid, Rhomarathin Feverfew, please let him know the matter has been dealt with. I believe the same may apply to Ser Thelarion Dragonsbane; both expressed some concern that the runeblade had not yet been destroyed when the Baron was slain."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "Yes, the sword has been quite thoroughly destroyed. That is, there linger small shards, but the traces of magic still present are highly unlikely to cause harm."
Captain Agrias Oaks lets out a tired sigh. "Aye. There yet remain shards within Light's Hope Chapel, but Lord Maxwell is seeing to those personally. As to the rest of the weapon, its taint has been broken." Short pause. Mumbling. "I see the Gate. I am stabling Alkoun, and then I am resting. Pray don't bother me for a day; I may sleep that long after that ride."
Zack Fair says, "... right, alright. Um... Then, I guess, gimme a call the day after tomorrow?"
Captain Agrias Oaks mumbles vaguely. "Aye, I will, ser. I apologise, I am exhausted..." Thump, which may be the radio being dropped or an exhausted Holy Knight falling onto her bed, and a fumbled click of the radio being turned off.
Where: Light's Hope Chapel - Eastern Plaguelands - Azeroth - Fantasy Sector
When: 23 August 2008
What: Still left with the runeblade that the Death Knight, Baron Devon Sunderland, had wielded; the IPA agents take the cursed weapon directly to the Argent Dawn for safe destruction. That seems to be the end of the necromantic attacks against the Kingdom of Ivalice - or is it?
Watch For: The Happy Healing Song. ...No, seriously. D:
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Ser Dragonsbane. I received your message. Have you any agents that may be knowledgable in the safe destruction of this cursed artefact? I was going to take the blade to the Time-Space Administration Bureau, but thought that perhaps those from your own plane may have knowledge of it."
Master Sergeant Christoph Schmidt says, "...Hauptmann? Was going to have you bring it to...hm."
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "Yes ma'am. The Argent Dawn is well familiar with handling these kinds of things. I'd meant to speak to them tonight but was forced to ask Kellen Firestorm to go in my stead due to unexpectedly falling down the elevator off Aldor Rise."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "Captain Oaks, if I may escort you to whatever destination you select to receive the blade?"
Simon Parker | Pat, absent-mindedly: "That thing's a killer."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Certainly, Factotum."
Simon Parker says, "Captain."
Vent says, "I'll help, if you want. I'm used to this kind of thing."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Yes, the Argent Dawn. Ser Feverfew spoke of something to that effect; I could not remember the organisation's name."
Zack Fair says, "Hey... Captain Oaks?"
Simon Parker ...audible PING!
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Ser Fair...?"
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "Argent Dawn, I believe?"
Zack Fair says, "Uh.."
Simon Parker salutes. "Simon Parker, acting Argent Dawn commissioned agent, speaking."
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "They're good people. If you're stopped by humans in red and white tabards, that's probably the, uh, Scarlet Crusade. Don't let them kill you, they get feisty."
Zack Fair says, "Well, I tho-...."
Simon Parker says, "...Goddammit, why does that happen every time?"
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "...Parker?"
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "Part of the enchantment, sir!"
Vent says, "Well, that was strange."
Simon Parker says, "I just put on my Argent Dawn commission so they'd know- Oh."
Zack Fair says, "..."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "..."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "How odd..."
Zack Fair says, "... well, it's nothing important. Just, gimme a call when you get the chance, would you?"
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "It helps, otherwise the scourgestones might make you sick!"
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Aye. Well, best we take this cursed thing as soon as possible. Perhaps it's better not to take it from its lockbox until we reach our destination; Alkoun will be able to carry the weight."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Of course, ser."
Simon Parker says, "Don't let Alkoun drink the water, or eat anything, while we're there."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Perhaps after this is through with."
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "I'll call ahead and see if Kellen made it yet, they'll know you're coming if so. Reception in the Plaguelands can be pretty bad due to the necropolises though, so stay on the road!"
Master Sergeant Christoph Schmidt says, "Am coming."
Zack Fair says, "Aft.. .. yeah, sure, alright. When you get back, right?"
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "Aye, Ser Dragonsbane. -And aye, Ser Fair."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "I shall depart at once."
Vent says, "On my way."
Thaelarion Dragonsbane says, "Nnnnn.. if I didn't rely on the healing of a feral druid.. I'd come as well.."
Tepet Tilis Tirana says, "Cooomiiiiiing~"
The Eastern Plaguelands might accurately be named 'Hell on Earth'. The effects of the Plague of Undeath are everywhere-vegetation rots in the ground, resembling nothing so much as decaying flesh, and the only animals left unaffected by the plague are the carrion worms, grubs the size of dogs... or larger. The sky is an uneasy rust-red, and cloud-choked.
Perhaps the IPA was expecting something grander when they heard the name 'Light's Hope Chapel', but the Argent Dawn's headquarters resembles nothing so much as a dilapidated one-room church, left over from the days when this land was full of life. Patrols of soldiers in gleaming armor and black-and-white tabards guard the area, protecting it from the undead.
Simon Parker takes the lead, guiding his chocobo, Octavian, along the path leading up to the chapel. Two guards-one human man and one orcish woman-approach. "Halt!" the man orders.
"It's okay," Simon says, tapping the Argent Dawn commission fastened to his jacket. "Call me Parker, I've done work for you people before. We're here because we've got a dangerous artifact that needs to be disposed of. If we could speak to Lord Maxwell Tyrosus?"
"Lord Tyrosus?" says the orc woman. "He hasn't granted audience to anyone in years, what do you-"
Simon leans forward, Octavian balking, and whispers something. Her eyes go wide beneath her visor. "This way, please."
Both soldiers retreat into the chapel post-haste.
The Scourge seems to touch all corners of the world, in Azeroth. There are few places where its influence doesn't seem to reach, either in words or, in the shocking cases of the Plaguelands, in action and deed.
As its name implies, this tortured, broken land bears witness to the Plague as no other place in Azeroth does. Agrias Oaks may be no druid, but this land is heartwrenching to look upon. The ravages of this place... she can only imagine what befell those that once lived here.
The Holy Knight follows directly behind Simon's chocobo. Alkoun is loaded down with his usual complement of battle supplies, but he also bears a bound, locked, chained chest on his back, directly behind Agrias. She seems to sit forward in the saddle as though to better avoid contact with the thing; those with supernatural senses may be sent reeling by the sheer necromantic power emanating from the thing.
Agrias pulls her bird up short. It may look like a hawkstrider, to the Argent Dawn, but it's too stocky; too heavily-built. There's nothing gracile about Alkoun, particularly in his full barding for war. Agrias herself wears her armour, Defender sheathed at her hip.
She looks uneasy, sidling her bird closer to Simon's and casting a sidelong glance to him. "They do not trust outsiders? I was told by Ser Feverfew that I should speak with the Argent Dawn..." She falls silent for a moment, Alkoun tossing his head and jingling the harness. Agrias watches the honour guard retreat, before turning half a glance back towards Simon. "They /can/ destroy it," she murmurs quietly, "right?"
Vent is an odd duck. He came here with Simon, Agrias, and the others. He did not, however, bring a chocobo. Or any other kind of riding beast. Or even a vehicle.
No, he /walked/. And used his dash thrusters, but still.
The ZX Saber is stowed at Vent's hip, but other than that he has no visible weapons. He comes to a stop and folds his arms over his chest as the others pull up short, glancing around the area with a sober expression on his face; this place kind of reminds him of some of the places that haven't quite healed from the Maverick wars. As he watches the exchange, however, Vent moves a little closer to Simon's chocobo and asks: "So, shall we all go in, or do you want some of us to wait outside?"
And again, Christoph finds himself wondering if there's some way to get his car cleared for transport through magical realms. He's just not very good with animals, and always feels vaguely at unease when having to ride on one. But for now, he stolidly puts up with leading his horse, an armored white steed, through the unholy blight on the face of Azeroth known as the Plaguelands.
This place is terrible. Absolutely. And very, very fittingly the place that might have spawned that wretch, Herr Baron von Sunderland. He does not have his hand on Balmung, worn in plan view at his side, but there is the sense that he is ready to draw it out at an instant's notice. A vomitous yellow sky, rotted earth, and the faint moans of the undead will do that to a person.
He spurs his horse on a little further forward, pulling abreast with Agrias and Simon right after the guard draws back into the small chapel. "If they are familiar with this...then hopefully they know. At least, able to contain it somehow. Otherwise...."
He looks around at the place. "Can wait outside," he says, at Vent's comment. "Building is small enough to join quickly if needed."
It's a little unfortunate that this call out was on such short notice. While the Guvner had certain supplies on hand in her office, not all of what she would normally bring with her on such a venture is immediately available. Time, however, is of the essence here. And so Gwen arrives on borrowed chocobo, sitting sidesaddle. Unfortunately also, she was unable to retrieve her normal outfit for extended adventuring; yes, that means she's wearing a skirt.
It's not entirely easy to guide the chocobo this way. Of course, Gwen never has much luck riding, but at least this chocobo seems to be fairly mild, if a bit on the dullbrained side. She has to make sure, of course, to keep it following the others, but at least it doesn't appear to be as panicky as the one she road a few weeks ago.
This is Gwen's first visit in the Plaguelands, and after a several shocked comments in regards to the state of the place, she's fallen more or less silent, glancing around the place now and again. While her expression is fairly stoic, there's a hint of abject horror; the diviner's had to deal with undead horrors before, of course, but this is, quite rightly so, a fiendish landscape. There is but one eventual comment on the matters at hand, "I understand. I shall remain outside. My appearance would be... unfortunately unfamiliar, likely."
Trotting along in the IPA party train is a rather unsettled and nervous young woman. She's withdrawn herself into her bright red cape and cloak as if hoping that the cloth would shield her from the horrors of the horrible horrible landscape beyond. She nudges her chocobo on with whispered breath, bright blue eyes occasionally peeking out before she squeaks and disappears within the cloak again.
Tirana had decided that she had enough of learning about the IPA, and decided to be a more active part of it. When volunteers were sought for the mission to Argent Dawn, she readily joined up because what was scary about someplace with such a powerful Realm-like name like 'Argent Dawn?' She'd also totally get to ride a giant chicken too. Giant. Chicken.
As it was, she only learned about the Plaguelands once they got there, and no amount of singing was going to bring this place back to paradise. So she trudges along with the group, halting her chocobo along with the others, and mewing a muted 'Do we have to stay out here?' look to Christoph's response. Re-assuring herself that everything's alright, she starts to sing a song she learned while on her learning trips these past couple of weeks. "All dressed up and nowhere to go, walking with a dead man over my shoulder..."
"Dragonsbane said they could," Parker says, to his Captain. He hops off Octavian's back, takes the chocobo's reins, and leads it over to where a number of other pack animals are left to lounge-there's horses there, a solitary kodo, and a hawkstrider or two.
One of the striders gives Alkoun a distinctly ugly look.
"The demon ties Octavian's reins to the hitching post, leaving the chocobo enough slack to move about of his own volition. One of the guards-the orc woman, again-answers Vent's question on Parker's behalf. "There is room enough," she says. "Enter. It's better than waiting in this wasted land." She gives the group a surprisingly friendly 'come in' gesture, and follows Simon as he enters the tiny chapel.
There is, indeed, room enough inside-there's a long banquet table, converted into a place to store charts and the like-in the middle of the room. Standing at the head is a graying man with an eyepatch; the paladin Lord Maxwell Tyrosus. Standing at his right hand is a... another man, but this one has clearly been dead for some time. Leonid Bartholomew the Revered approaches the group, bows with the sound of creaking bones and straining necrotic flesh, and turns to Simon. "Baron Sunderland was a good friend of mine," the undead says, somberly. "It is good that he finally has the rest he deserves."
Tyrosus is a bit more businesslike-he approaches the group, and crosses his arms across his chest. "Have you brought the runeblade?"
Agrias slides down from the saddle, hissing as she hits the ground too hard on her crippled leg. She takes him over to where Octavian was tied, though, quickly and efficiently guiding the reins through a slipknot.
The parcel on the chocobo's back earns a little more care; Agrias unstraps the leather that had held it down carefully. Once that's done, she pulls it off his back, hefting it up once she lets it ease down far enough.
"We thank you, dame." A formal title for what appears to be a formal knight, within this organisation. Agrias nods her head briefly to the orc woman. She doesn't have the facilities to bow properly, but her look of relief is plain. Making her allies wait in this ruined land would do worse for their nerves than anything that could happen inside.
She sets the parcel down before Tyrosus with a grunt, stepping back and offering the lord a deep and formal bow.
"We brought it at all haste, my lord. It is wrapped in oilcloth, and has not been removed from this bound chest since its recovery. Furthermore, it has been locked in my personal office, and placed under guard. I have not been near it."
Leonid Bartholomew earns a bit of a look, but Agrias only shakes her head. She sounds uneasy when she speaks. "If it be any consolation, ser, he was smiling when I slew him." How do you say something like that gracefully, anyway? "I suppose he must have known he would find peace soon." She offers a shallower, but no less formal, bow to the Forsaken. "I am sorry, ser."
To Tyrosus she turns next. "This is the runeblade, ser. I thank you for dealing with this on such short notice. I am only sorry it could not have been brought sooner."
Vent nods as the orc woman invites them in. Well, that solved that problem. He nods slightly to acknowledge the invitation, before walking in with the others. Vent pauses to look around the room...Bartholomew is given a somewhat wary look, but Agrias doesn't seem too freaked out so he assumes he shouldn't be. The Mega Man simply folds his arms over his chest and looks around for any sign of trouble...he assumes there isn't going to be any, so hopefully all the sturm and drang turns out to be for naught.
Christoph pauses a moment, looks over at Tirana when she makes that tiny, uncomfortable noise. This is not a place for a singing princess, indeed. There are no happy tunes to be found here, only dirges and death rattles. With a slight inclination of his head toward the chapel, he seems to encourage her to go within once entry is allowed. He doesn't like this place either, but he may be able to hold up to it better than she.
Whatever happens, he swings a leg around and stiffly dismounts, wincing faintly as he straightens his knees out. Yeah, not much of a horse rider, this one. He watches the others, hears the invitation, and-well, there are many guards outside, and the Argent Dawn are supposed to be friendly. To remain outside may be construed as an insult. Thus, after allowing the others to enter before him, the battlemage brings up the rear.
He does stay near the door, though.
A quick, almost cursory glance over the interior of the chapel-it is indeed roomier than he imagined. He is brought up short, momentarily, at the sight of Bartholomew, bristling for an instant, but his readings about the Forsaken come to mind quickly and he relaxes. Fractionally.
He does not speak, first saluting silently as they speak, and then nodding slightly at the question regarding Rimehowl. And as if by a magnet, his gaze is drawn to said blade, covered and secured, when Agrias lays it out on the table.
He does not feel an unearthly pull toward it, and for that, he is thankful.
They can go inside? Sure, its only a rickety rundown chapel, but hey - walls are walls. Tirana hastily dismounts her chocobo and unhitches the bow and quiver she had strapped to its back. Hiking both over her shoulder, she follows the party inside while still singing the strange melody to herself, "Waiting for an invitation to arrive, going to a party but noone's still alive..."
"Going to a party but no... one's... still... alive?" The song comes to a choking, almost strangled, halt as soon as Tirana catches sight of Leonid. If nobody had noticed her eyes, they might do so now that they're growing to the size of saucers. She glances away from the undead hurriedly, bundling up further inside her cloak as she switches to a more re-assuring stanza, "Don't run away, its only me. Don't be afraid of what you can't see..."
While it's a lot easier for Gwen to just slip off the chocobo like this, she still stumbles a moment when she touches ground. At least, she doesn't fall over this time? The reins are tied to the post, following Agrias' lead. Fortunately, the diviner's more adept with her hands than with her feet. Her pack, too, is retrieved from the back of the bird. Maybe it would be best to keep her supplies on hand, in the event of an incident.
"My thanks," Gwen replies to the woman inviting her in. Certainly, she's used to being treated with a certain level of suspicion due to her heritage. Perhaps her appearance is even more strange to people of other worlds. Still, it's much better being a part of things than remaining outside.
Entering the small chapel, Gwen moves to one side, allowing Agrias and the others the right of way. Certainly, they are the bearers of the object of interest, here. There's a flicker of pity in her eyes at the words of the undead warrior. "My sympathies. Thankfully he is at peace now," she murmurs, her gaze lingering on Leonid perhaps a tad too long. Judging from the presence of the others, his current state is likely of no great concern, but an undead being, a peaceful one... how strange. Perhaps there will be time for questions later.
There's a bit of a shudder as the parcel's set down. Entropy's strong about it, strong enough for the negative-touched genasi to be able to feel its chill a degree at this distance, even if it's still enclosed in the chest. "By the Binder," Gwen murmurs, shaking her head slightly.
Leonid gives a stiff, formal nod to the woman that killed one of his oldest friends. "He must've known. Somewhere, in the depths of the soul, he must've known what he'd become, thanks to that accursed sword. It will not corrupt another. That is all the vengeance I seek." The undead man looks stoic in the face of Tirana's fear, and makes a simple 'peace' gesture with his hand. "Fear not," he says, in a voice that's surprisingly gentle despite the raspiness. "The Light may have forsaken me, but I have not forsaken the Light."
Simon looks distinctly uneasy as Agrias sets the necrotic blade down on the table, casing and all. "Open it," he says. "Unless they can destroy the whole thing in one go-" Tyrosus shakes his head, settling that matter.
"Remove it," the Paladin says. "But don't lay hands on it any longer than necessary."
Agrias sets the chest on the table, with obvious relief. Not only is that chest maddeningly heavy, but she's starting to feel uneasy with all of this attention on her. She is a Holy Knight - admittedly close to a Paladin - and feels nothing issuing from it.
The knight takes from her belt a small ring of keys, jingling as she unlocks the padlocks that bind the chest's chains. Another set of keys unlocks the iron rings around the chest. A final key unlocks the large lock that guards the chest itself, the lock itself snapping open and hitting the table with a dull, anticlimactic 'thunk.'
Agrias throws the chest open, the lid squealing on old hinges. She hesitates, though, before reaching for the oilcloth, pulling a pair of rawhide gloves from her belt. She dons those before carefully flipping aside the oilcloth and exposing the blade itself.
Rimehowl could be a brother to Gressil, the Dawn of Ruin. Its runes are the same shade as the abyss between glaciers, and the blade itself is so dark as to swallow the ambient light around it.
Agrias draws back from the thing with a faint hiss. "Cursed thing," she says, voice low. "I do not feel anything from it, but I mislike it all the same. It has too much the bearing of a Zodiac Stone."
She steps away, letting the Argent Dawn close in on the cursed artefact. "Do away with it as necessary. I'll not suffer this... this /thing/ in my office any longer." Already whisking the gloves off, she ties them back at her belt with a glower fixed towards the cursed sword.
...One overly superstitious could almost swear the thing glowers /back/, as though it were appreciative of the attention.
Vent's interest seems to pick up as the sword is revealed. He was expecting some kind of reaction, and he's not disappointed...he frowns slightly as the air temperature in the room seems to drop. But the illusion quickly fades with a shake of the head....he's dealt with dozens of items with this kind of power, after all. He folds his arms over his chest and watches intently, curious to see what kind of fate awaits the cursed object.
Tirana is given a somewhat-concerned look. He doesn't say anything outright because he doesn't want to embarrass a fellow warrior, however. He's somewhat of a latecomer to this whole situation, though, so he's content to observe for now.
Forsaken by the Light, but not forsaking it in turn? Christoph blinks slowly at this. But is he.... No, never mind. He is not a philosopher, and there are more important things to be worrying about than odd little things like that. He just, instead, nods again, quietly. By many accounts, death knights were not always completely willing in their plunge into darkness. Perhaps there was a remnant of that here.
While at other times, Tirana's reactions might have been amusing-but even in those times, he wouldn't have laughed. Instead, at this time, he moves closer to the others, leaving the doorway to, hopefully, provide a reassuring presence. And perhaps, for himself to receive a bit of reassurance still. This Chapel of Light's Hope is a good measure better than outdoors, but this is still in the midst of the Plaguelands.
The request to uncover the sword is given, and he tenses. Quickly, he looks between the sword and Agrias, back to the sword, then back to the Holy Knight. What will this show? What will she say? He folds his arms across his chest, incidentally bringing his right hand just a little closer to Balmung's hilt. Incidentally.
Her words...are good ones. Ones he likes hearing from her. And yet, he can't help but stay wary, shown by a furrow that stays on his brow. Finally saying the first words since entering the Chapel, he asks, "How will you destroy it?" His voice hangs in the air, accent seemingly heavier in the dank atmosphere. It is a question worth bringing up: artifacts of power are rarely just shattered with simple force, after all.
Tirana's reaction gets another flicker of pity in Gwen's eyes; it's understandable why many would react in such a way, isn't it? The historian is curious herself, in fact; benign undead are not well-known where she comes from, although perhaps not impossible. "It is alright, miss," she says, attempting to sound soothing. Poor girl.
Gwen says nothing as Agrias works open all the locks on the chest, simply watching the Holy Knight unveil the sword. Her gaze is perhaps best described as the intense stare of someone who is at once highly curious and yet expecting the very worst to be revealed before them. The vague sense of entropic power grows stronger as the sword is further exposed to the room, culminating in a momentary wince from Gwen when the oilcloth is unwrapped. In fact, she has to look away; there's something uncomfortable about the runes. ...Wizards who try to interprete what's beyond their abilities only invite disaster upon themselves.
The girl nods back to Gwen, she doesn't seem quite as scared now. Some people have steely resolve, others have to sing their fears away. Not that unveiling ancient demonic artifacts will help matters any, Tirana swears she can see infinity in the depths of the sword. Which is completely horrifying as swords don't have depths! Her singing stops right then and there, and she doesn't hesitate to start shuffling towards Christoph while keeping her gaze straight on the sword. He's strong enough, he should be handy as a hero in a pinch. Or a meatshield.
Simon Parker's breath catches in his throat as Rimehowl is laid out on the table for all to see. A chill runs down his spine, and the air temperature seems to turn positively glacial-to say nothing of the necrotic energies leaking from the blade, which are enough to make his stomach churn. The whole room suddenly reeks of death.
"Well?" Parker says, a little irritably, "The sooner we dispose of this thing, the better. For Sunderland, and all the other victims of the Scourge!" The demon manages a half-hearted look of determination. This thing... is pretty damn powerful. He /hopes/ the Argent Dawn can destroy it.
"Patience," Leonid says, settling a rotting hand on Parker's shoulder. The demon grits his teeth, but does nothing more. "Let Lord Maxwell work."
And Lord Maxwell does work. The Paladin grimaces as he sees the blade, but steels himself and grits his teeth. "Light aid me," he says, sinking to a knee in prayer. "For the souls of all those lost. I pray, help me /end this abomination/."
It might just be a trick of the light, but Maxwell is momentarily enveloped in a faint glow trickling down through the roof of the chapel. The Paladin reaches for the Libram strapped to his belt, cracks it open, and starts to read. As he does, the book and his hands start to glow.
Rimehowl sits there on the table. Lord Maxwell rises, stands over it, and grits his teeth-he levels both hands over the weapon, and in a voice powerful enough to rattle the timbers of the chapel, he cries: "BE PURGED BY THE LIGHT!"
Light pours into the cursed weapon. It jitters, defiantly, rattling on the table-then cracks start appearing in its surface. The Runeblade starts to smoke; it lets out an unholy tripartate wail as it seems to combust...
And then explode. Fragments fly everywhere, punching holes in the walls of the chapel. Part of the blade breaks off and flies towards Agrias-perhaps Rimehowl's being perverse in its death.
But in the end, all that's left is ashes.
The Holy Knight takes a step away from the table once she's laid bare the cursed artefact, the better for the Argent Dawn to work their cleansing rites on it. She'll be glad when this whole affair is seen to and done. Part of her idly considers contacting the Relief Society to help repair the graveyards that were damaged, and offer some solace to the dead.
She watches as the paladin begins his rites, golden eyes curious as she sees and feels the welcome, clean burn of holy energies. He opens the sacred text, and Agrias watches the blade all the more intently, as though waiting for it to do something; uneasy. Colour her pessimistic, but some part of her just doesn't think it's going to be that easy.
It never was, with the Zodiac Stones. Things were always far more bloody and difficult before the situation was done with.
The Holy Knight gives a sharp yelp as a sliver of the blade is flung towards her, too quickly for her to do much more than whip her head aside at the force of the impact. It draws a ragged line of red along one cheek, leaving a thin wash of blood down the length of the side of her face.
A little stunned, she reaches up, touching two fingers to the blood and staring at them dumbly. "What is this?" Agrias demands, angrily. "Does it seek to lash out even in death?" She shakes her head, cupping the side of her face to try and staunch what blood she can. "Is that all, then? It is... it is destroyed?"
She sounds hopeful. It'll be good not to have that uncomfortable presence in her office any more, or the vague suspicion that she was housing some sort of sword-shaped time bomb. From the way her coworkers were hounding her about that thing, it may as well have been.
She moves her hand to check the blood, grimacing. It may not be a very wide cut, but apparently it's run deep. "Has anyone any bandages?"
Vent is content to watch, though he gets a slightly ominous feeling when the blade starts to move...and it only gets worse when it starts to smoke. At that point, Vent goes for the ZX Saber. By the time the blade actually explodes, Vent already has his weapon in hand.
He brings it up and across his body, activating the triangular blade with a snap-hiss as plasma quickly ionizes the air in its path. Several fragments of the blade hiss as they touch the energy saber and melt away; one bounces off of the crystal mounted on the forehead of Vent's helmet. Thankfully none of them (that he's aware of anyway) struck home. "Well, that was kind of anti-climactic..." the Mega Man observes, before deactivating his weapon and holstering it again. He looks around to check on the others. "Everyone else okay?" To Agrias, however, he gives an apologetic shrug. "Sorry...I don't really use bandages myself."
Large battle-trained Belkans make good meatshields indeed. It's a role that Christoph is used to, so he makes no visible reaction when Tirana steps near to him. He does feel the change in the air as the sword continues to be exposed to view, to light, to life. It is unpleasant, but he can bear this. He's borne worse before.
Simon's words do not stir him, but he looks sharply at Maxwell when the man steps forward. A prayer, an appeal to a higher power. Is that what it will take to break the ruined blade? And to his eyes, sensitive to the flows of magic, there is a trace of strange light that moves from above into the man. Again, a strange, unknown magic like the runeblade-but warm and reassuring, instead of cold and deathly.
His stare then shifts to the libram: even more of the holy energy contained in there. Words, incantations, he hears but does not understand. Only the last words-the order to be cleansed.
"Gott in Himmel!" he says reflexively as he feels the energy vibrating through the room, calling on a God that he doesn't really believe in. But in this case, appropriate, isn't it? The blade shudders, then sunders and as the fragments fly, Christoph yanks Balmung from his hip-still within the sheath, now glowing a fractured pale blue with a hastily activated shielding spell-to block them from not just himself, but also Tirana and Gwen. A shard flying toward Agrias-he cannot stop that, only shout, "Hauptmann, look out!"
Too late, but at least the wound is nothing more than a gash on her cheek. He sighs, shaking his head; one small fragment bounced off the patchwork shield spell and ricocheted into the roof above. "Would not be surprised," he says, in response to her question. "Intelligent weapons exist." He indicates Balmung, which he then hangs again on his hip.
He doesn't carry a first aid kit, so he can only shake his head. But then, something else occurs to him, as he remembers that the blade seemed to feed on its victims. "Hauptmann Oaks...your...do you feel anything from the cut?" A pause. "...besides pain."
Artifacts aren't easy to destroy. Some need to be cast into the forge that created them, others might need to be interred in a specific location. Perhaps it's fortunate that an apparent solution to the presence of the blade is so easily at hand. Gwen's attention, now, is towards Lord Maxwell as he reads from his holy book. The diviner, in fact, raises a hand to her chest, her lips moving in a prayer of her own to her god. Certainly, a foul device being destroyed would be something Oghma would smile upon...
Her words stop short with a gasp, though, as the blade screams in protest, its unholy wailing causing Gwen to step back a step and raise a hand. In fact, any who are familiar with the diviner will recognize the beginnings of a spell's gestures. This is again entirely cut short when the sword explodes; Gwen lets out a short cry of surprise and covers her face with her arm. For whatever reason, though, despite the total destruction of the sword, no one appears injured... save Agrias. Thankfully, the wound appears minor. "Captain Oaks!" she cries out, before stooping to open her pack. It's not exactly the best of kits, but... "Here, make use of this," the diviner entreats, approaching the knight and handing over the small kit. There's not much in there but what's basically found in a first aid kit; at least Gwen took this from the IPA supplies and didn't bring one from her home.
It's strange, the brighter the light and the louder the incantation, the more Tirana actually steps away from her tank. In fact, she's actually taking a couple tepid steps towards the sword, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the whole ritual. "Amazing," she whispers to nobody in particular, only to chirp an excited eek once the sword starts to rattle and break. Its then that she turns not to Christoph, but to a nearby support pillar for cover just before things literally go up in smoke.
Once that clears, she emerges again, noting part of the blade embedded in the same pillar. She dares not touch it, instead edging away warily lest it leap out and do really bad things. There's no need to ask if anyone's OK, she caught sight of Agrias's cut and is already halfway to the door. "I brought some in my pack, I'll be right back!"
Or she could just use the pack that Gwen gave Agrias. "Oh!" Tirana redirects herself back in their direction, takes the pack in hand with a grateful nod, and starts laying out the bandages and disinfectants and whatnot. "I still haven't quite picked up the hang of these, but it shouldn't be too hard..."
The dust settles. Leonid and Lord Maxwell return to their places at the table-the latter looks somewhat woozy, but he just channeled a great deal of divine energy through a tainted weapon that would otherwise be indestructible. Give him a few moments. It's this wooziness that keeps him from simply healing Agrias' wound.
Simon, meanwhile, is muttering about a long gash in the side of his sleeve. The Rimehowl-fragment that flew at him drew no blood, but it ruined a perfectly good suit jacket. "Is everyone else okay?" Parker asks. "Captain, are you... well?"
For a moment, Agrias doesn't move. It's a little unnerving to have everybody staring at her as though she suddenly contracted rabies.
"I... am fine," she states, uncertainly. Her hesitation is more on the part of their worry, though, and less about her own physical or mental state of being. She takes another moment to watch them watching her, blood seeping slowly around her fingers.
"Just bleeding," she comments wryly. Her eyes flick over towards Gwen when the Factotum approaches with the first aid kit, bobbing her head slightly in gratitude. "Thank you, Factotum."
With quick, efficient motions she dabs the blood out of the wound, scrubs away any smears left, and applies a little disinfectant for good measure. That done, she stretches a bandage over it, poking it lightly until it sticks, hissing. "That stings."
Her hands, however, are still bloody from where she had tried to stop it. She sighs, settling for wiping it off on her cloak. There are wonderful cleaning agents beyond the Gates that make removing blood from garments a relatively simple matter, really.
...Ovelia might yell at her for coming home with blood smeared over part of her clothing, though, perhaps drawing the wrong conclusion. Agrias winces upon realising this fact, but turns towards the two Argent Dawn warriors.
"Well, we thank you for your service, Lord Maxwell." She lets her hands drop, clenching a fist and unclenching it experimentally, as though checking for a moment once Parker asks his question. "Aye. I am well."
She turns a slow circle, looking up at the slivers and fragments of Rimehowl embedded... well, pretty much everywhere. She glances back towards Leonid, brow furrowing a bit in mild puzzlement. One bloodied hand points up towards where a few pieces are stuck into the ceiling, like miniature javelins. "What are you going to do about those?"
Vent nods slightly. "Yeah, I'm fine." Well, the worst that came of it was a minor scratch...as far as Vent's concerned, everything's worked out. He takes a step forward, his gaze happening to wander to the tiny holes in the wall that he passes. He frowns slightly, and gives a slight bow before glancing over at the other IPA members as if to say 'am I doing this right?' before turning his attention back to Lord Maxwell. "Err...sorry for the damage to your chapel. I don't think any of us were expecting it to be quite that....ah...reactive." Thankfully this wasn't his fault, or he might have to pay for it. Usually he takes his artifacts out back before nuking them, see. Responsible lad.
Christoph had been tracking Tirana's movements, but did not stop her from moving forward. He would have stopped her if she'd gotten close enough to touch it, but in the end, she retreated on her own, so all's well. He warily glances around at the holes left in the walls and beams, shaking his head slightly. A minor miracle that there weren't any other injuries, and that the single one inflicted was light.
At least, in the physiological sense.
But he is worried more about what Rimehowl may have attempted-or accomplished-in its death throes. And yes, he is thinking that it was purposeful, not just an accident, thus his question of Agrias. He glances at Simon as the other man asks the same thing.
She seems all right, though, at least for now. "Sehr gut," he grunts, nodding, and relaxes again. Very well. "But if something strange does happen...." The rest goes unsaid-she should be wise enough to get it checked out if anything untoward occurs.
He too turns his eyes upward when the other remnants are pointed out. "Good question," he murmurs.
Of course, there is a little bit of worry about the wound, or, rather what caused the wound, as she allows Tirana to lay claim to the kit and treat Agrias. However, does it necessarily always follow that a cursed wound would cause what Thaelarion had spoke of, corruption? Jumping to such a conclusion, of course, would be far too hasty, and would hardly help anyone at the moment. One step at a time...
Agrias' reaction, though, she concludes, is a good one. "You are quite welcome. Thankfully, the injury appears to be, ah, minor," she says, smiling back at the knight briefly. "It's quite fortunate no one appears to have..." and here she squints for a moment at Simon. No, just a tear in a sleeve, there. "...No major injuries," the diviner concludes, before adding, peering up at the wound on Agrias' face with a momentary adjustment of the glasses on her face, "According to those of my fellows who study the body... wounds on the face simply bleed more freely."
And then Gwen takes a few steps back, and gazes up at the ceiling where Agrias indicates. "...Mother of magic," she breathes, "Those must be dealt with, in the eventuality they still retain essences of the curse..."
"I wasn't expecting that, either," the Paladin grunts, to Vent. He shakes his head, and puts a hand to his forehead. He looks up at the ceiling as Agrias points out the Rimehowl-bits stuck in the rafters, and frowns, thoughtfully. "I'll get them down myself," Maxwell states. "And clean this mess up. That cursed blade holds no more power, I made certain of it."
Simon looks up as well. He narrows his eyes, squinting at the fragments of the blade. "Lingering Essence," he whispers. "But the bulk of it has dissipated. It shouldn't be powerful enough to harm anyone, much less possess someone."
Or Agrias could just tend to the wound herself. Tirana blinks in surprise as the knight takes the bandage by the horns, and she sits and waits for her to finish before dutifully packing up the rest of the first aid kit. The threat gone, and the undead guy on their side, she's no longer a scared little Dynast. To that point, she even starts to sing, "The Happy Healing Song, sing it while you heal, the Happy Healing Song, tell us how you feel o/`"
Out of habit, she reaches out to touch Agrias on.... Tirana pauses her song to examine Agrias over, "Um, do you have any exposed flesh other than your face? I can't seem to find any under all that armor..."
Golden eyes linger on the ceiling for a moment, before Agrias reaches up to touch at her face again. The bandage seems to be sticking, much to her satisfaction, and her attention then turns towards her fellows - both those with and without the Argent Dawn.
To Tyrosus, she offers another formal bow, the likes of which she gave on her way in. "I thank you for your service today, my lord. We would have been forced to accomodate this wretched thing for... the gods only know how long, otherwise." Bad enough it was taking up space in her office. It's not very big to begin with. "I have seen the Death Knight with my own eyes; you have done the multiverse a service in destroying what Baron Sunderland had become. Is there-is there aught I might do to repay you for such a service?"
Gwen earns a brief look. "Aye, that they do. I've had wounds about the eyes, before." She gestures to indicate a faint old scar, a tiny, thin white line just above the freshly bandaged cut. "It's a bother every time," she sighs. "And it stings like mad."
To Simon, she casts a brief glance. "Aye? I feel nothing. You are my eyes and ears, in this matter... tell me if you detect any changes." She pauses, thoughtful. "Or perhaps you'd best tell Lord Maxwell. I've similar training to a warrior of the Light, or so I'm told, but there's little I can do about it. I've simply no idea of what to look for."
Ah, speaking of which. She turns towards Tyrosus. "Ah, my lord. It was also recommended that I speak with the Argent Dawn, at the behest of one... Rhomarathin Feverfew, a druid? I believe he thought I may be of some help to your Order."
There's a faint pause, in which Tiriana's song drifts through the room amongst what is otherwise total silence. Agrias glances over at her, staring somewhat oddly for a moment, before shaking her head and looking back towards Tyrosus.
"If there is aught I might do for your Order, my lord; be it in personal assistance, or aid from the Vanguard Detachment that I captain, I would be honoured to serve." She inclines her head, respectfully. "Of course, I would not wish to intrude, or to overstay my bounds." In other words, feel free to kick out the IPA contingent if they're getting in the way now.
"...I admit," she adds, a little more hesitantly, with a smile that seems a little more halting, "I am somewhat curious as to the Argent Dawn. It has been some time since I have seen an Order of knights so true and dedicated to their cause..."
Vent stares at Tirana. She's not serious, is she? Oh wait. She is. Well, there are things on his homeworld that are kind of strange too, so he manages to avoid a derisive snort or a laugh or anything. Now that everything seems to be settled, in fact, he starts to make his way to the door. "If we're wrapping up here, I should probably be going. Got my own cursed artifacts to look for, after all."
The Happy Healing song makes Christoph's eye twitch briefly. What?
Aside from that, matters appear to be closed here, though the Belkan does take a couple more looks around, eyeing the fragments here and there. The one stuck in the support beam that Tirana hid behind is close by; he walks over to it, and as he listens to Maxwell's statement that the shards are cleansed, gingerly yanks it out of the wall-holding it with his artificial hand, notably. "Does not feel...same as before," he muses. It feels cold-as according to the technological sensors embedded in his prosthetic-but simply the cold of a piece of metal at room temperature.
He waits patiently for Agrias to address the members of the Argent Dawn; he gives a grateful nod as well when she thanks them for their help. When the moment presents itself, he now speaks as well. "Vielen Dank. Many thanks from IPA SWAT and the Time Space Administration Bureau. Have learned much just from coming hier. Ah...." He holds up the piece of metal. "Permitted to keep this for study, Herr Maxwell?"
"Ah," is Gwen's singular comment in regards to the apparent harmlessness of the remaining fragments. Nonetheless, she traces an arcane gesture with one hand, murmuring a few words softly. The Guvner then slowly gazes about the room, searching out magical auras where the shards of the sword may have ended up. She's learned from experience not to look too long at her companions. For that matter, she doesn't look at the Paladin or Leonid, either, while she searches out traces of magic. A woman could go blind.
Distantly, as she works her spell, she's aware of Tirana's song. A bard, perhaps? There were things that could be woven into music that, for a lack of a better word, were magical. And it's with those thoughts that the diviner terminates her spell, her analysis of the scene complete.
There is, indeed, an old scar about the knight's eye. "A miracle you were not blinded in that eye, Captain," Gwen murmurs. A similar wound did, in fact, cause a friend to lose an eye, quite a long time ago. The Guvner, all told, has been lucky that even her grevious injuries have never cost her a limb or eye.
Either she's ignoring or ignorant of the reactions to her song, perhaps there are other matters of greater concern to Tirana. Like the fact that she's still searching for something to touch. Having no luck, she sighs and proceeds to reach out and touch the knight on an ear. "There." All she needed was a touch, Infection Banishing Prana takes care of the rest. The wound is cleansed above and beyond the disinfectant, no germs or bacteria will be harming this Holy Knight!
The Holy Knight glances towards Christoph when he holds up a minor shard of Rimehowl. It makes her a little uneasy that the pieces aren't also spiritually pulverised into dust, but at least they can make do with shattering the rest of the blade.
Absently, she reaches up to touch at the bandage covering her cheek. It still stings, in the way that a fine-honed razor cut stings. The sword was sharp when it was whole - she still bears a bandaged shoulder from that - and it managed to sting even in its sundering.
Bloody thing. She manages a brief glare towards the shards embedded in the ceiling. Serve you right, that look seems to say.
But, Gwen seizes her attention as she addresses her again. "Ah? Oh. Right. This I received in another mission. We were fighting agents of the Black Alliance... aye, I'm lucky not to have been blinded in that eye." She shakes her head. "I've yet to pay that wound back, unfortunately," she states grimly.
Oh, she will. Someday. Eventually. Maybe.
...Her gaze slides slowly over to Tirana, in the manner of somebody not quite trusting what's being done to them, or perhaps in the manner of very carefully watching somebody suspected of lunacy.
Chuckling, though, she turns towards her companions.
Tyrosus shakes his head. "We've taken care of the blade, for now, but we still have much work to be done here. Another time, perhaps."
Leonid seems to agree, looking the party over and nodding faintly, his glowing eye sockets lingering on each. "The Argent Dawn of course thanks you for bringing this cursed blade to us for cleansing. Every runeblade we destroy is another victory against the Scourge. But as Lord Maxwell claims, we've much to be getting on with, here." He gestures one mostly-skeletal hand towards the door outside. "We should be so lucky for the Scourge to collapse on itself. Unfortunately, that isn't the case, and someone must defend Azeroth from the grave threat it presents."
"As you wish, my lords." Agrias offers a short bow, all formality. "I will contact the Argent Dawn another time, then. Thank you again, my lord, for your service. Should you ever require any aid from the Vanguard or the Agency at large, do not hesitate to contact us."
"We will remember that, Captain." Leonid nods to the party, before turning to his companions in the Argent Dawn. "Farewell," he offers, over his shoulder.
Agrias also turns to face her companions, reaching up to poke the bandage back into place. "I believe that concludes our business, here." She's smiling, in the manner of somebody who's done a good thing. It must be a Paladin thing. Destroying corrupted artifacts in the name of the Light, and all. "Thank you all for your assistance. Best we return to our places, though, for the time being."
She turns, then, filing out the door from Light's Hope Chapel. Alkoun is unhitched, and she vaults into the much-lighter saddle, turning her chocobo towards the nearest path towards the Gate. That, it would seem, is that.
Or is it...?
Having been permitted to keep the fragment, Christoph snaps off another salute. "Thank you again." And he, likewise, turns and exits the Chapel, following closely behind Agrias.
It is notable that he keeps holding the fragment, as harmless as it may be, in his metal hand. You can never be too careful.
Captain Agrias Oaks sounds tired, but satisfied. "The runeblade has been destroyed." Short pause, over the jingling of a harness. "The Argent Dawn saw to its destruction personally. Master Sergeant Schmidt has retained a sliver for the study of the Time-Space Administration Bureau." Another short pause, over jingling harness. "...I now see why the Plaguelands are not recommended for travelling." Horrified, "Good /lord/... I can only imagine what destruction was wrought here."
Master Sergeant Christoph Schmidt says, "Very...unpleasant."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "Indeed..." She doesn't sound as if the visit was very comfortable.
Zack Fair sounds relieved. "Glad to hear it went well..."
Captain Agrias Oaks says, "If any should see the druid, Rhomarathin Feverfew, please let him know the matter has been dealt with. I believe the same may apply to Ser Thelarion Dragonsbane; both expressed some concern that the runeblade had not yet been destroyed when the Baron was slain."
Factotum Gwen Meynolt says, "Yes, the sword has been quite thoroughly destroyed. That is, there linger small shards, but the traces of magic still present are highly unlikely to cause harm."
Captain Agrias Oaks lets out a tired sigh. "Aye. There yet remain shards within Light's Hope Chapel, but Lord Maxwell is seeing to those personally. As to the rest of the weapon, its taint has been broken." Short pause. Mumbling. "I see the Gate. I am stabling Alkoun, and then I am resting. Pray don't bother me for a day; I may sleep that long after that ride."
Zack Fair says, "... right, alright. Um... Then, I guess, gimme a call the day after tomorrow?"
Captain Agrias Oaks mumbles vaguely. "Aye, I will, ser. I apologise, I am exhausted..." Thump, which may be the radio being dropped or an exhausted Holy Knight falling onto her bed, and a fumbled click of the radio being turned off.