Post #2406063 in The City of Chains, a roleplay on RPG

It was difficult for Sparrow to shake herself off and join in the fray, though she did catch Aurora's sideways glance and swallowed dryly, rummaging within herself for a sense of courage she did not currently feel. Her legs felt like jelly, sticking to the wooden boards as if she'd been frozen there—just another statue to add to the Gallows. But her friends were engaged with the sailors, and more importantly, Silian. Her clammy hands shifted as she hurtled forward, sidestepping around Aurora and bodily throwing herself into the whip-wielding sailor, clipping him violently with her huddled shoulder. It was enough to send him tumbling backwards, skidding on his rear. She did not stop. She did not slow her maddening pace. There was a wildness flashing in her murky eyes, reflecting Silian's sanguine whip and the back of Rilien's shoulders. Graceless and audaciously reckless as she might have been, Sparrow did not pause to consider her actions when she threw herself to the side, swinging her flanged mace as if it were a slender, precise blade. She aimed for the back of his legs, intending to break every bone.

Fortune favoured the wicked. Sparrow's mace rebounded off Silian's crimson shield, swept up with the flick of his slender wrist, and swung her in the opposite direction. He smiled coyly, fluttering long eyelashes in her direction, but kept the majority of his attention directed at her Tranquil-companion, crackling his whip with waggling fingers. Wide, animated eyes orchestrated her frustrations. Her teeth chattered, clenching and unclenching. Every injustice roared through her head like clamouring lions, toppling over one another, unrestrained and unbound. Her breath hitched, struggling to wheeze out of her lungs. Rapture was unusually quiet, hidden in the darkest parts of her Fadespace—watching and waiting and engrossing herself with her fingernails, though she could feel a certain unease from her. It only fed the flames broiling in her stomach, spilling over into her thoughts. She was not thinking. But, Rilien was like the tide to her hurricane, weaving around the trouncing cracks of the whip, calm and collected as always.

Sparrow found the scream settled under her chin, curdling there like rotten teeth. It bubbled out of her mouth, filtered through her bitterness. She charged again, swinging her mace in a wide arc. Silian, once more, slapped her away with his own blood. Her momentum carried her towards the railing and one of her hands instinctively shot out, preventing herself from tumbling overboard. Her scream, it seemed, reminded him of something. Another smile tugged at his lips, and his tired eyes beamed in recognition. He lowered his voice, but it still seemed like he was dropping plates when he said, “Ah, you. Little girl in the woods. It was hard to recognize you like that, all dolled up in steel.” The sanguine-whip slapped the air, attempting to keep Rilien at bay. He did not even turn to look at her. “A dime a dozen. It's hard to keep them all straight when you've been in the business this long.” The loud, agonized cry bunched itself in her chest, replaced by another sharp intake of breath.

To him, she'd been nothing. To him, she'd been just another. Forgettable, hardly worth remembering. She wanted, with a desperation she could not justify, for him to regret everything he'd done as he died. She wanted him to die brutally, without an ounce of mercy. She wanted him to beg and cry and wail like a broken, doe-eyed mother who'd just lost her child. Even now, Silian seemed to be pleasantly surprised, rather than terrified that he may die. Sparrow pushed away from the railing, gripping her mace, two-handed, and swung once more. This time, Silian's whip crackled towards her, slicing a fine line down across her neck and face, stopping short below her left eye. Had she not understood what blood magic was, then she would have asserted that hardening blood was impossible—that slicing someone's face with their own blood was a joke. It hurt her enough to ruin her forward push. Momentarily blinded by her blood, or speckles of his, Sparrow collided into another sailor, bringing him down with her.

Her fingers, free of her mace, frantically grappled onto the first thing she managed to touch. Someone's scalp. Grimy, dirty hair with a tousled bandana. Sparrow wrenched backwards, straddling the man and jerking his head up with her, only long enough to slam it back down against the wooden slats. She felt as if she'd been ripped inside out, inverted and uncomfortable. Her fear radiated under her skin, rippling away with all of her anger. Stretched thin and wounded. And like a coward, Sparrow pictured Silian's face on the sailors, slamming his head again and again.

Rilien’s next attempt to move forward was diverted sideways with another crack of the whip, which forced him to dodge. Unlike the regular variety of such a weapon, this one was controlled only by the mind of the wielder, the kinetic motions only necessary for the psychological effect of moving that mind along its proper paths. He felt a measure of disdain that this man needed that much. But perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps it was only for show. That he was capable of manipulating a weapon and a shield of blood at the same time spoke to a great deal of skill, not nearly as subtle as most Magisters would claim, but suited for a violent occupation such as this. Those with feelings to speak of might have felt daunted. Rilien could not recall what it was to be daunted.

Sparrow entered the fray then, her in articulate, almost animal rage met time and again by Silian’s amusement and his shield both. And still, he devoted the attentions of his offensive arm to the Tranquil rather than the mace-bearer, who in her fury seemed once again to have forgotten her own magic. It seemed that he recognized her after all, but only as one face in a long chain of them, and truthfully, Rilien had expected nothing else. He wondered distantly, ducking around another lash with dexterous ease, whether it was a blow to her pride to realize as much. It shouldn’t be—the recognition of this one wasn’t worth that.

Sparrow was beaten back and turned to the side, and Rilien took his opportunity—or that’s what he would have said he was doing. It was hard to tell, but his feet may have been driven forth just as much by his desire to remove the blood mage’s attention from his friend as from any particular strategic advantage presented at the moment. It worked, however, and Silian found himself with a new, deeper gash to his side for his trouble. Only the need to remain out of reach of the whip, lest it bind him, prevented Rilien from disemboweling the man for truth. The mage pressed a hand to the wound, and it came back covered in ichor. “My, my; that silly little girl has quite the voracious hound, doesn’t she?” A flare of magic, and the wound ceased bleeding, at least for the moment. But a blood mage was not a healer, and both of them knew it was a temporary solution at best.

This time, the whip caught him off guard, going low rater than high, and instead of lashing him across the back or the face as Silian had seemed to be initially intending, it slithered around one of Rilien’s ankles, wrenching abruptly upward and hanging the Tranquil upside-down in the air for the space of a breath, before it snapped out and down, slamming him bodily against the deck of the ship. He felt a crack as his nose broke, blood gushing from the wound and over his mouth and chin, but though the rest of the force had been bruising, it was insufficient to break any of his sturdier bones.

…At least until the motion was repeated, and then he felt one of his ribs give under the pressure, snapping uncomfortably. The third time, Rilien did not allow the motion to complete, slicing through the blood-whip with enchanted steel at the apex of his upward arc, something which flung him further into the air and gave him ample time to adjust for his landing. Thudding to his feet on the wooden floorboards of the boat, he wasted no time, and the point at which elegance was required was long over. As Silian had done, Rilien went for the unexpected, lowering his shoulder and taking the other man into a grapple on the ground. The shield was useless at such range, and before the mage could so much as protest, Rilien had staked one of his shoulders to the ground, this with the ice-blade, which had the added effect of freezing most of the blood, rendering it unusable for the foul magic.

Silian didn’t look so amused now, but Rilien didn’t really care. He wasn’t interested in things like vengeance or admonishing this man for what he’d done. Words were often useless, and this was one of those times. The slaver knew why they were here, and he knew what fate awaited him. Discussing it would only grant him the chance to think of something to prolong his life, and that was simply unacceptable. The Tranquil did manage to muster a glare from somewhere in his old repertoire, however, and a tiny, wicked little twist to his mouth. Instilling a little fear seemed appropriate enough—though whether either expression of mood was genuine or merely affected was hard to tell. He’d been trained that way.

And just like he’d been trained, his other blade started at Silian’s left ear, biting deep and sliding with both precision and no haste along the line where neck met jaw, finishing its elegant sweep at the lobe of his opposite ear. There was no mistaking that the blood that welled from this wound took his life with it, and Rilien stood, his face once more smooth and impassive, even given the break in his nose and the crimson trail now winding erratically down his throat. Flicking his knife to clear it of blood as much as could be done, he planted a foot in Silian’s shoulder and used that as leverage to work his other free. Now… how did the others fare?

It wasn't long before some other company arrived, and Ithilian turned to see three more enemies approaching from the rear, slipping out of shadows to try and help their soon-to-be-slain leaders. Seeing as the mage was in the capable hands of two of his allies, he rushed to meet these newcomers, and prevent them from reaching the others. He was certain that if they knew just what kind of teeth they were walking into, they'd turn right around and run the other way, but sadly all they seemed to see was two and a half elves and a small woman, and it would be the last mistake they'd ever make.

Aurora had taken the opportunity given to her by Sparrow and rushed forward. She took advantage of the sailor sitting on his rear and ran through him, bringing up a knee and smashing it into his face. As his head ripped back and smacked against the ground, Aurora straddled him, picking his head up by the back and hammered two blows home into the center of his skull, knocking him out as well. With two of the sailors dealt with on her end, she stood and took a step toward the blood mage currently engaged with the pair consisting of Sparrow and her Tranquil friend. Blood magic was dirty business, and one she hoped to scrub away personally. She saw it as a weakness of character to resort to such dark magic, seeing it as a lack of willpower to resist the allure of false power. Unfortunately, the pair would have to deal with Silian himself, as another three sailors stepped from the shadows to aid their comrades.

Eyes fluttered to Silian and then back to the trio, and with a grumble she too turned to face the new arrivals. While she was unsure of Sparrow's emotional state, she could be perfectly sure of Rilien's, and trusted the tranquil enough to do what must be done. So she followed in Ithilian's wake toward the next couple of sailors. While she'd been careful about ending any lives thus far, she felt that streak was soon to be broken in the Dalish's company. So be it, they were wicked men, they would all be dealt with sooner or later. At some time between the beginning of her run and the confrontation itself, she had called a layer of stoneskin across her arms, leaving her body stone-free to allow for better dexterity.

The first sailor that turned to her wielded a huge meat hook. The sight of the weapon sent a shudder down her spine and she hoped that he had only found it laying around on the docks. She didn't like the idea of a slaver handling a hook on a daily basis. He brought the hook down hard, looking to skewer her through the shoulder, but she was faster than he was with such an unconventional weapon. Instead of flesh the hook buried into stone, though the point did manage to touch flesh. It stung, but beat the alternative, and now the hook was stuck as well. With that in mind, Aurora hauled it back, overextending the Sailor and leaving his flanks wide open.

The young mage seemed willing to take the blows and allow Ithilian to deal them, which he was more than content with. After all, she had arms currently made of rock, and he had no problems with killing these people. Instead of immediately going for the exposed flank Ithilian struck upward with a blade into the hook-wielder's elbow, stabbing through it and pulling the arm away, removing him from his weapon. With that done he impaled the slaver through the middle with his other blade, his withdrawal accompanied by a headbutt to send the man to the ground, while Ithilian slipped around to take out the next aggressor.

The mage spent the next moment fishing the hook out of her armor, and by the time she managed to free it, the next sailor was upon her. This one was wielding a mace-- that would be a bit more difficult to dodge. She couldn't just hold up her armor and hope to take the hit, it would splinter both the rock and her arm in one fell swoop. So instead of doing just that, she moved inside his guard. past the handle of the flail. She took the opportunity to slam a rocky fist into his sternum, taking the breath out of his lungs and hunkering him forward. She was still worried about the backswing from the flail, and needed to neutralize it before it slammed into her back, snapping her like a twig. She reacted on instinct, swinging the meat hook up and around, hooking the elbow around the back of the man's neck. Next, she just dropped and yanked the hook at the same time, throwing her feet out from under her and bringing the man completely parallel with the ground. The sound of the flail head slamming into the ground was a comforting one, and now she could only hope Ithilian was kind enough to not bathe her in his blood.

By the time the enemy was bent over for Ithilian's attack, he was already in motion towards him, eyeing the head that was held down by the hook Aurora had commandeered. He launched a knee forward directly up into the slaver's forehead, cracking his head back with a snap and shatter of skull, and ripping the hook clean from Aurora's hand. The man toppled away onto his back and Ithilian's momentum carried him forward on top of him, where he sank both blades into the man's chest, for good measure.

The last chose to attack the murderous Dalish rather than the sitting mage, and Ithilian pulled his blades free in time to cross them and catch the down swipe from the third slaver's sword. This was followed up with a swift kick to the man's groin, and a rough shove in Aurora's direction, that she might do with him as she wished.

She was just returning to her feet when the last of the sailors was unceremoniously launched in her direction. She didn't even have the time to dust herself off before she was forced to react. She took a step forward, past the man with her stone encased arm extended. The rough appendage caught him in the center of the chest, and with a mighty heave, she used the heavy weight of her arm to force him off of his feet and planted him into the ground. She then raised her fist, the stone exterior peeling away in the middle of flight, so that the fist that struck the sailor's nose was made of flesh instead of stone. For extra insurance, she dropped another fist on the man's head, this time in the forehead to make sure that he was well and truly knocked out.

Now that all that had been settled, she finally found the opportunity to dust herself off and shake the pain from her hand. Her eyes then picked up where they left Rilien and Sparrow, seeing that they too had finished their own fight. With that, she nodded and shrugged, "So much for beating us with our skulls."

Sparrow pushed away from the sailor, fingers sticky with clumps of matted hair and blood. The man below her gurgled unintelligibly, fingers twitching until he exhaled, finally lying still. Her own breath came in sharp, uncontrolled rasps. If she looked back, she would be lost. If she hesitated now, then she'd only live to regret her own weaknesses. Sparrow bent to retrieve her weapon and took the time to look around her, to see how the others had fared. Her flanged mace thumped against the wooden planks, loosely held in her fingers. Honestly, she shouldn't have been surprised. Her companions were far stronger than they looked—though, if anyone had thought Ithilian weak, she would have laughed at them. Even Aurora seemed nonplussed by the onslaught of sailors, grimly wiping herself off. Flecks of pebbles skittered from her slender fingers, and Ithilian seemed to be just as happy to dispose of these disgusting cretins.

Uncertain, trembling fingers wiped at her face, smearing blood across her cheek and forehead. The ugly gash on her face only paused its bleeding for a moment, weeping back down her chin as soon as her hand withdrew. A dull, throbbing pain ignited its way down her jawline, drumming down her neck with each heartbeat. It didn't matter. The only thing that really mattered was making their way through the ship to find, and brutally kill, Arcadius before he managed to flee their wrath. She whipped her gaze around to her Tranquil-friend, who was finishing Silian off with a brutal slash to his face. Appreciation, and sickening fascination, swelled inside of her chest, infected her with a disturbing sense of satisfaction. She was truly happy that Rilien hadn't spared him any pain. She was happy and it made her feel sick. He stared ahead of him, expression blank and blanched as the vellum pages of a newbound book. If it hadn't been for the blood painting his face, running thickly from his nose, Sparrow might have thought he'd come out unscathed.

Her eyebrows screwed up, drawing tightly. Apologies bundled themselves in her parched throat, bubbling around words that would not puzzle back his nose in place or heal his broken ribs. She feebly wished that her magical repertoire came with some sort of healing ability—for if she tried to lay her hands on his face and weave cartilage and bone back into place, she might settle them in the wrong places and cause even more damage. It was the reason why she resonated so clearly with the more offensive aspects of magic. She could break and destroy and make a mess of things, but she was rubbish at fixing them. Sparrow took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. Her hands trembled almost imperceptibly, drawing up to touch two fingers to his cheek. Sallow, selfish little girl in the woods, the creature whispered from her Fadespace, ever-smiling and dipping into her reservoir of guilt. “I'm sorry—I,” She sputtered, dropping her hand away, “I lost myself.”

Sparrow glanced at Aurora and Ithilian. This was not a game. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw, and cry as she hadn't since she was a small child—hadn't since that one day in Rilien's home. Her home. Her gaze rested on the magelet, requesting aid without opening her mouth. She knew that Aurora was capable of healing, but even she'd admitted that it wasn't her strongest suits. If she could not, then she would seek out Nostariel's aid. Rilien would probably refuse, saying that he could deal with it himself as soon as everything was finished. An old stubbornness, or an unwillingness to rely on others, seemed to be the cause, as always. Sparrow turned away and headed for the ship's staircases, door still hanging wide open. “Let's finish this, then.”

She would lead them down this time.

She would not hesitate.

Snippet #2406063

located in Kirkwall, a part of The City of Chains, one of the many universes on RPG.

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