It seemed like only half the words the others were speaking were properly making it to Nostariel's ears. She registered encouragement, and something about camping, but it wasnât really processing the way it should, as though it were all coming to her disembodied, through some kind of thick, soupy fog. Her vision was blurring, and whatever sense Wardens had that darkspawn were near was almost rendering her incapable of paying attention to anything else. There was something in her headâa singing, almostâsomething that began to deafen her to all other sound without itself having volume, as far as she could tell. Something was alive in her blood, tugging her forward almost against her will, and she left the shelter of familiar hands to take a few lurching steps forward, her eyes fixed on some unseeable point in this distance, clear blue hazed over with a light, greying film.
Distantly, she realized that this was not something she wanted. The way it sang in her mind was off-key, somehow, or at a pitch she could not tolerate. Overwhelming, yes, but there was no sense of pleasant allure to it, nothing mysterious or beckoning or inviting. She knew that to heed that call was something unpleasant, something she did not want and should never do, and yet it drew her forward anyway, at the same time pressing down on her mind with the same dark, foreboding pressure that had been weighing on her since she entered this place.
Swaying slightly from side to side, Nostariel clutched her head in her hands, fingers pressing into her temples as though to relieve the building pressure there, if such a thing were possible. Her hearing was gone, swamped by the damnable singing, and she started to lose feeling in her extremities first, followed swiftly by the rest of her.
From the outside, it was easy to tell the exact moment at which she lost control of herself. She stiffened, her hands dropping away from her head, and spun around in a jerky motion, the ice blast from her left hitting Lucien square in the chest.
Whatever Lucien had been expectingâa collapse, perhaps, or equally as much for Nostariel to right herself and continue onâit had not been for her to attack him. Caught thoroughly off-guard, he staggered backwards from the force of the hit, the ice freezing his chestplate and chilling the mail and linen and skin underneath. Forcing himself to intake a breath, he steadied himself again, reaching halfway to the sword at his back on pure instinct before he hesitated, uncertain.
Amalia had no room for such hesitation herself. This would not be the first time that a friend, under the influence of something outside themselves, had turned hostile towards her, and she had no more intention to flounder in this situation than she had in the last. She drew no weapons, knowing that there was less chance of miscalculation when she relied only upon the strength that was naturally hers, and she ducked around Lucien, lunging for Nostariel in an effort to pull the Warden to the ground for a pin.
It was a sound enough tactic, and perhaps would have worked, had Stroud not body-checked her on her way, throwing his shoulder into her from the side, his superior weight sufficiently diverting Amaliaâs course and allowing Nostariel to back up and gain distance on the rest of the party. Her movements were still jerky, much less precise and practiced than usual, and her next shot, aimed for Ithilian, flew slightly wide, aimed not for center mass but rather his left arm. Stroud had drawn his sword, and swung it in an overhead arc for where heâd knocked Amalia down.
Before the downward stroke of Stroudâs blade could be completed, Amalia saw another cross her vision, horizontally some distance over her. It slanted down, the tip digging into the mortar on her other side, effectively shielding her from the attempt at a cleave. Stroudâs blade clanged off of it with a loud rapport, and she was able to use the time and the space both to regain her feet.
Ithilian's mind did not work fast enough to immediately connect this with the occasion when he had turned his own blades on his allies in the Fade. Perhaps if there had been some verbal struggle beforehand, instead of what looked like head pains causing the Wardens to attack any and all non-Wardens around them. He also did not draw his weapons, having none of a particularly gentle variety, and could only watch the opening moves from his spot on the flank, as Amalia's attempt to subdue Nostariel was interrupted.
The blast of ice that came for him might have speared him straight through the chest had Nostariel's aim been better, but instead it took him through the arm, the bulk of it stabbing just below his left elbow, the rest clumping tightly around his sleeve. His proximity to the wall behind him caused him to suddenly be pinned in place, the ice having shattered through it and locking in place, while blood ran down the frosted length of it. He struggled to work his arm free, to no immediate effect. Nostariel looked about to follow up that attack with another, and Ithilian no longer had any means of moving out of the way.
As it so happened, the attack never came. The bow in Ashton's hands clattered uselessly on the ground as he let go of it. It served no purpose other than to wound or harm, neither of which he wished upon Nostariel. Instead, his feet started to churn as he did the only thing he could think of and threw himself at Nostariel to try and wrap her into a tight hug and pin her arms to her.
Nostariel was no expert at barehanded confrontation, but it was possible that she knew more of it than Ashton did, considering all the time she had spent with Amalia, learning what the other woman had to teach. It wasnât elegant, but she managed to get her knee up in time to prevent a true pin, even as she was carried to the ground. Her staff was hopelessly tangled between them, so she let go of it, rolling out from under him with a hard shove and carrying herself to her feet.
Bereft of her weapon, she reached for the other she carried, the bow still slung across her back. It had no arrows, of course, for she could provide those herself. Drawing the string back, she materialized a blue-white projectile, cool next to her ear where she held it. Her frame shuddered, a soft choking sound accompanying her release of the string.
With a thud, the arrow thrummed home.
There wasn't any pain, just the force of the arrow pounding through the plate in the middle of his chest and slamming him back against the ground. His hand went to where the arrow was, just in time for it to discharge its magic. Icy fingers mixed with his blood as they spread across his chest in a diluted crimson, freezing his hand to his chest, and freezing him to the ground behind him.
Finally, the pain struck, accompanied by a low whine and a choking cough. His breathing became labored as his head slumped back, his eyes closed in an effort to focus on staying alive.
"Nos, please..." He pleaded.
Nostariel drew back the string on her bow again, her eyes still glazed over. This time, the arrow that appeared on it seemed to crackle with electricity of all things, quite likely enough to stop a manâs heart, if he were the only target of the force. Once more, she raised the draw to proper firing position, sighting down the shaft of the mana-crafted arrow. The words whispered over her, like the faintest brushing of fingers along the shells of her ears, a teasing touch thatâ
The singing crescendoed, drowning out the thought that was trying to form, but still her hand did not relax its grip on the arrow. She held it fast in place, her eyes refocusing on the target now that she knew it was lined up. The target. She had to shoot the target. Grip rock steady, because she held it with her back more than her arms. Any fool could throw an arrow, but it took an archer⊠it took an archer toâŠ
Fire one. Fire now. FIRE NOW, FIRENOWFIREâ
Face twisted into a distorted expression of agony, Nostariel swung the bow for the sky, releasing the arrow harmlessly into the air. It reached the height of its arc, and she let go of the magic holding it, causing the chain lightning to explode in all directions, lighting the dim cavern with sharp white light for but a few seconds.
The singing was an ugly, shrill sound, more like a constant, high-pitched shriek now more than anything. She couldnât stand the sensation, couldnât stand the noise. Turning on her heel with a motion like something mechanical but erratic, she put distance between them, moving back as though to rejoin the fight.
Amalia and Lucien were still occupied with Stroud. Though she did not feel the same need to be nonlethal with him as she did in Nostarielâs case, Amalia acknowledged that it would be much better if they could neutralize the threat without ending the manâs life. Lucien seemed to be of the same mind, and as a result, he was doing a great deal more defending than attacking, which meant that even when opportunities for good hits came up, he was not always taking them. Both warriors were wearing down, and Amalia herself was not feeling especially useful, able to draw Stroudâs attention when Lucien needed a moment, mostly to stop him from trying to go for the pinned Ithilian.
It was impossible to keep exact track of what was going on with the other two, but she did notice when the lightning spell exploded in the sky, and pursed her lips grimly. Leaving Lucien to deal with the other warrior, she shot a glance behind her at Ithilian, then moved her eyes forward to Nostariel. There was little choiceâsomeone had to distract her, lest she be able to take aim and fire at her leisure. This in mind, Amalia hopped into a sprint, carrying herself low and zigzagging so as to present a smaller, more erratic target.
Nostarielâs motions were not exactly quick, either, and she at times seemed to countermand her own previous decisions to move in some way, making her look rather like a doll with an exceptionally-spastic puppeteer somewhere behind her. Perhaps the better thought would have been somewhere inside her. Whatever the case may be, she was not able to take decent aim at Amalia, and backed up rapidly, relaxing her draw and letting the arrow fly off to the side, well left of where it would have needed to be to hit the fleetfooted target.
The next few seconds were an attempt to avoid the inevitable, which went about as well as one would expect. Amalia managed to take her to the ground, but a mage was dangerous at any distance, and almost by reflex, Nostariel conjured fire to her hands, trying to shove the other woman off by causing her enough pain that sheâd loosen her hold. Somewhere, she distantly remembered that sheâd have better luck making a nug fly, but there was no way to spell out the implications of the recollectionâtoo much singing, too much struggle. Her hands were having less effect than she would have liked, partially due to the fact that Amaliaâs armor was made of a dragonâs hide, and thus quite flame-resistant. She was tiring quickly.
Stroud wasnât doing too much betterâbut he was better equipped for a long confrontation than Nostariel, especially since his opponent was taking the slow route, wearing down his energy by presenting a solid defense and just enough offense to keep him on his toes. They circled each other, Stroud either unaware or uncaring of the fact that Lucien had shifted him such that the Wardenâs back was now to Ithilian.
Ithilian had to get himself free of the wall first, and to that end, he drew Parshaara, striking it against the ice that pinned his arm. The magical flames leapt onto the ice, burning it away and sticking in a way that no mundane fire would be capable of. Eventually the ice magic began to wear away, at the cost of fairly severe burns up the length of his arm. Finally he was able to rip free, at which point he fell and worked to snuff out the flames. Easier said than done.
When he was able to rise again, he charged Stroud from behind, wrapping his good arm around the Warden's neck, and trying to trip up his legs to bring him to the ground, hoping to either choke Stroud into unconsciousness, or otherwise give Lucien a better opportunity to disarm him.
Stroud was not prepared for the sudden change in weight distribution over his body, it seemed, for he staggered backwards, regaining his balance only with several seconds of effort, and it was clear that Ithilianâs choke-hold was not making his life any easier. In the time it took him to recover, Lucien had seized the opportunity his ally providedâwith a decisive hit from Everburn, Stroudâs own blade went flying off to the side, and Lucien stepped in, maneuvering to strike the Wardenâs temple with the pommel of the weapon. When the other man began to collapse, apparently unconscious, the chevalier kept hold of the collar of his armor, largely to give Ithilian a chance to get off before Stroud fell over backwards onto him. When everyone was properly extricated, Lucien lowered him carefully to the ground.
It took Amalia a few more seconds to achieve a similar effect with Nostariel, the armor covering her torso heating to the point where the skin beneath was decidedly uncomfortable and probably beginning to burn. That said, it was nothing bad enough to detract from her focus, and she shifted her weight, pressing a forearm into the base of Nostarielâs throat, cutting off her air supply. Carefully minding the seconds, she waited not a moment longer than it took her friendâs grip to slacken and her eyes to roll up in her head, then removed her arm and rolled to the side.
Distantly, she realized that this was not something she wanted. The way it sang in her mind was off-key, somehow, or at a pitch she could not tolerate. Overwhelming, yes, but there was no sense of pleasant allure to it, nothing mysterious or beckoning or inviting. She knew that to heed that call was something unpleasant, something she did not want and should never do, and yet it drew her forward anyway, at the same time pressing down on her mind with the same dark, foreboding pressure that had been weighing on her since she entered this place.
Swaying slightly from side to side, Nostariel clutched her head in her hands, fingers pressing into her temples as though to relieve the building pressure there, if such a thing were possible. Her hearing was gone, swamped by the damnable singing, and she started to lose feeling in her extremities first, followed swiftly by the rest of her.
From the outside, it was easy to tell the exact moment at which she lost control of herself. She stiffened, her hands dropping away from her head, and spun around in a jerky motion, the ice blast from her left hitting Lucien square in the chest.
Whatever Lucien had been expectingâa collapse, perhaps, or equally as much for Nostariel to right herself and continue onâit had not been for her to attack him. Caught thoroughly off-guard, he staggered backwards from the force of the hit, the ice freezing his chestplate and chilling the mail and linen and skin underneath. Forcing himself to intake a breath, he steadied himself again, reaching halfway to the sword at his back on pure instinct before he hesitated, uncertain.
Amalia had no room for such hesitation herself. This would not be the first time that a friend, under the influence of something outside themselves, had turned hostile towards her, and she had no more intention to flounder in this situation than she had in the last. She drew no weapons, knowing that there was less chance of miscalculation when she relied only upon the strength that was naturally hers, and she ducked around Lucien, lunging for Nostariel in an effort to pull the Warden to the ground for a pin.
It was a sound enough tactic, and perhaps would have worked, had Stroud not body-checked her on her way, throwing his shoulder into her from the side, his superior weight sufficiently diverting Amaliaâs course and allowing Nostariel to back up and gain distance on the rest of the party. Her movements were still jerky, much less precise and practiced than usual, and her next shot, aimed for Ithilian, flew slightly wide, aimed not for center mass but rather his left arm. Stroud had drawn his sword, and swung it in an overhead arc for where heâd knocked Amalia down.
Before the downward stroke of Stroudâs blade could be completed, Amalia saw another cross her vision, horizontally some distance over her. It slanted down, the tip digging into the mortar on her other side, effectively shielding her from the attempt at a cleave. Stroudâs blade clanged off of it with a loud rapport, and she was able to use the time and the space both to regain her feet.
Ithilian's mind did not work fast enough to immediately connect this with the occasion when he had turned his own blades on his allies in the Fade. Perhaps if there had been some verbal struggle beforehand, instead of what looked like head pains causing the Wardens to attack any and all non-Wardens around them. He also did not draw his weapons, having none of a particularly gentle variety, and could only watch the opening moves from his spot on the flank, as Amalia's attempt to subdue Nostariel was interrupted.
The blast of ice that came for him might have speared him straight through the chest had Nostariel's aim been better, but instead it took him through the arm, the bulk of it stabbing just below his left elbow, the rest clumping tightly around his sleeve. His proximity to the wall behind him caused him to suddenly be pinned in place, the ice having shattered through it and locking in place, while blood ran down the frosted length of it. He struggled to work his arm free, to no immediate effect. Nostariel looked about to follow up that attack with another, and Ithilian no longer had any means of moving out of the way.
As it so happened, the attack never came. The bow in Ashton's hands clattered uselessly on the ground as he let go of it. It served no purpose other than to wound or harm, neither of which he wished upon Nostariel. Instead, his feet started to churn as he did the only thing he could think of and threw himself at Nostariel to try and wrap her into a tight hug and pin her arms to her.
Nostariel was no expert at barehanded confrontation, but it was possible that she knew more of it than Ashton did, considering all the time she had spent with Amalia, learning what the other woman had to teach. It wasnât elegant, but she managed to get her knee up in time to prevent a true pin, even as she was carried to the ground. Her staff was hopelessly tangled between them, so she let go of it, rolling out from under him with a hard shove and carrying herself to her feet.
Bereft of her weapon, she reached for the other she carried, the bow still slung across her back. It had no arrows, of course, for she could provide those herself. Drawing the string back, she materialized a blue-white projectile, cool next to her ear where she held it. Her frame shuddered, a soft choking sound accompanying her release of the string.
With a thud, the arrow thrummed home.
There wasn't any pain, just the force of the arrow pounding through the plate in the middle of his chest and slamming him back against the ground. His hand went to where the arrow was, just in time for it to discharge its magic. Icy fingers mixed with his blood as they spread across his chest in a diluted crimson, freezing his hand to his chest, and freezing him to the ground behind him.
Finally, the pain struck, accompanied by a low whine and a choking cough. His breathing became labored as his head slumped back, his eyes closed in an effort to focus on staying alive.
"Nos, please..." He pleaded.
Nostariel drew back the string on her bow again, her eyes still glazed over. This time, the arrow that appeared on it seemed to crackle with electricity of all things, quite likely enough to stop a manâs heart, if he were the only target of the force. Once more, she raised the draw to proper firing position, sighting down the shaft of the mana-crafted arrow. The words whispered over her, like the faintest brushing of fingers along the shells of her ears, a teasing touch thatâ
The singing crescendoed, drowning out the thought that was trying to form, but still her hand did not relax its grip on the arrow. She held it fast in place, her eyes refocusing on the target now that she knew it was lined up. The target. She had to shoot the target. Grip rock steady, because she held it with her back more than her arms. Any fool could throw an arrow, but it took an archer⊠it took an archer toâŠ
Fire one. Fire now. FIRE NOW, FIRENOWFIREâ
Face twisted into a distorted expression of agony, Nostariel swung the bow for the sky, releasing the arrow harmlessly into the air. It reached the height of its arc, and she let go of the magic holding it, causing the chain lightning to explode in all directions, lighting the dim cavern with sharp white light for but a few seconds.
The singing was an ugly, shrill sound, more like a constant, high-pitched shriek now more than anything. She couldnât stand the sensation, couldnât stand the noise. Turning on her heel with a motion like something mechanical but erratic, she put distance between them, moving back as though to rejoin the fight.
Amalia and Lucien were still occupied with Stroud. Though she did not feel the same need to be nonlethal with him as she did in Nostarielâs case, Amalia acknowledged that it would be much better if they could neutralize the threat without ending the manâs life. Lucien seemed to be of the same mind, and as a result, he was doing a great deal more defending than attacking, which meant that even when opportunities for good hits came up, he was not always taking them. Both warriors were wearing down, and Amalia herself was not feeling especially useful, able to draw Stroudâs attention when Lucien needed a moment, mostly to stop him from trying to go for the pinned Ithilian.
It was impossible to keep exact track of what was going on with the other two, but she did notice when the lightning spell exploded in the sky, and pursed her lips grimly. Leaving Lucien to deal with the other warrior, she shot a glance behind her at Ithilian, then moved her eyes forward to Nostariel. There was little choiceâsomeone had to distract her, lest she be able to take aim and fire at her leisure. This in mind, Amalia hopped into a sprint, carrying herself low and zigzagging so as to present a smaller, more erratic target.
Nostarielâs motions were not exactly quick, either, and she at times seemed to countermand her own previous decisions to move in some way, making her look rather like a doll with an exceptionally-spastic puppeteer somewhere behind her. Perhaps the better thought would have been somewhere inside her. Whatever the case may be, she was not able to take decent aim at Amalia, and backed up rapidly, relaxing her draw and letting the arrow fly off to the side, well left of where it would have needed to be to hit the fleetfooted target.
The next few seconds were an attempt to avoid the inevitable, which went about as well as one would expect. Amalia managed to take her to the ground, but a mage was dangerous at any distance, and almost by reflex, Nostariel conjured fire to her hands, trying to shove the other woman off by causing her enough pain that sheâd loosen her hold. Somewhere, she distantly remembered that sheâd have better luck making a nug fly, but there was no way to spell out the implications of the recollectionâtoo much singing, too much struggle. Her hands were having less effect than she would have liked, partially due to the fact that Amaliaâs armor was made of a dragonâs hide, and thus quite flame-resistant. She was tiring quickly.
Stroud wasnât doing too much betterâbut he was better equipped for a long confrontation than Nostariel, especially since his opponent was taking the slow route, wearing down his energy by presenting a solid defense and just enough offense to keep him on his toes. They circled each other, Stroud either unaware or uncaring of the fact that Lucien had shifted him such that the Wardenâs back was now to Ithilian.
Ithilian had to get himself free of the wall first, and to that end, he drew Parshaara, striking it against the ice that pinned his arm. The magical flames leapt onto the ice, burning it away and sticking in a way that no mundane fire would be capable of. Eventually the ice magic began to wear away, at the cost of fairly severe burns up the length of his arm. Finally he was able to rip free, at which point he fell and worked to snuff out the flames. Easier said than done.
When he was able to rise again, he charged Stroud from behind, wrapping his good arm around the Warden's neck, and trying to trip up his legs to bring him to the ground, hoping to either choke Stroud into unconsciousness, or otherwise give Lucien a better opportunity to disarm him.
Stroud was not prepared for the sudden change in weight distribution over his body, it seemed, for he staggered backwards, regaining his balance only with several seconds of effort, and it was clear that Ithilianâs choke-hold was not making his life any easier. In the time it took him to recover, Lucien had seized the opportunity his ally providedâwith a decisive hit from Everburn, Stroudâs own blade went flying off to the side, and Lucien stepped in, maneuvering to strike the Wardenâs temple with the pommel of the weapon. When the other man began to collapse, apparently unconscious, the chevalier kept hold of the collar of his armor, largely to give Ithilian a chance to get off before Stroud fell over backwards onto him. When everyone was properly extricated, Lucien lowered him carefully to the ground.
It took Amalia a few more seconds to achieve a similar effect with Nostariel, the armor covering her torso heating to the point where the skin beneath was decidedly uncomfortable and probably beginning to burn. That said, it was nothing bad enough to detract from her focus, and she shifted her weight, pressing a forearm into the base of Nostarielâs throat, cutting off her air supply. Carefully minding the seconds, she waited not a moment longer than it took her friendâs grip to slacken and her eyes to roll up in her head, then removed her arm and rolled to the side.