A Winter Night

[Sventon]

~*~

For Sefall, once he passed the rest of the empty holding cells, the tunnel continued narrowly with torches spread far apart - so that the distance was never completely covered, and there were always brief instances of oppressive darkness between stretches of flickering firelight on the wet walls. It led to the main chamber, where some of the others were - and where three cultists were dead on the floor. It was an expansive room, and aside from the entrance, there was one other tunnel to the right. It led to the living quarters.

~*~

[Minty]

Acteon's call was heard, and it seemed that the thing Ignas had been dreading had happened. Luckily, he was hanging far behind the rest of the group. It was too crowded for him to lend proper support, and he didn't feel like giving chase to anyone who might run off. No, no. He might -seem- lazy, but...his particular talents would pay off if things got bad. He is also moving towards Acteon, towards Quincy who is beside him, and takes a knee.

"Did you get a look at the enemy?", his question mirrors Quincy's, his voice a quiet hiss. "And...you don't look wounded.", he looked to be in pain, though. Which made little sense. Ignas gazed out of the cave mouth, frowning. He saw little. His head turns to Quincy. "You should warn the main group....but let me handle this.", he can either wait at the cave mouth, a good choke point, or he could move out to engage them, a less attractive, but faster option. Hm. Best to hear their numbers, first.

[Vanidor]

Outside: There would be little to hear, truth to tell, for the men of Janerio's scout brigade were masters of their chosen profession. Rumours abounded that they were elven trained, for that would be the only way such men as these could flit about the forest unheeded by mortal means. Which meant that against the more mundane trackers and even some beasts, they were little more than shades in the night. Against those with more... refined sensibilities, only a few in the corps had the trinkets and skill needed to match up against such things.

So. If Ignas was indeed more of another realm of reality and less of this one, and did indeed posses much of those other-worldly skills, he would note that there were at least ten in the trees about the entrance. No. Eleven. If he could hear their heartbeats, he would note how steady they were, like the continual thrum of surf against the shore. Their breathing was easy, at least for ten, another would seem... excited. Or at least less calm then the others. Finally, then, a quiet voice.

The words were directed to the overly armed bartendress, and said in a voice that was accustomed to the shadowy edges of the night. "Woman. Your friends went inside, I think we hit one with our blunts. See to him, and let Lieutenant Jons, or Ariane know that we reside outside. Nothing mortal will get past us."

------------------

Inside: Lieutenant Jons, as it happened, did not follow Altias along the path to the cells with their chains and bars. Instead he diverted himself, content that the man was in the care of the sightless healer, Lamai, and the swordswoman, Ariane. Turned and slowly padded down the tunnel, that would lead to the living quarters, seemingly at ease with the way the shadows wanted to twist and turn his eyesight, the way the torches that glittered here and there aimed to rob him of his nightvision. He steadied his breathing, or tried too at the least. For his dander was up, as it was said, and he felt the itch to smash his mace into someone elses face. To exult in the fel of crimson blood slapping against his arms and the sound of it hitting his mask. It made him feel alive, it did.

Adon above lend mercy to anyone who was in the next set of chambers that did not belong with the party in one way or another. For surely Jons would not.

[channe]

She's been quiet, but attentive; she does not seem to want to go far from Rhaena, and when Acteon comes back shot she has terrible concern in her eyes; but here is Quincy, speaking and drawing her sword.

"Oy, stranger, don't die, y'hear? Doesn't look -- look too bad," she offers. And then -- "We cut off?" She joins them, whispering just above hearing-level.

Neck cranes to where Ariane and Cinnabar left; damn. Already, they've split up. Already, they're cut off.

This was a bad idea, she thinks.

[Cinnabar]

Ariane's approach has Cinnabar glancing back and nodding in recognition, though her words cause him to frown in polite disagreement and shake his head briskly.

"I don-"

And then there's squirming and struggling again, which deepens the frown. Bah, just when he'd got things calmed down and agreeable. It takes a few moments to reassert control of the situation, tightening his grip upon Sventon's neck and shifting to place more of his weight on the cultist's back until he subsides, holding his dagger clear for the time being. "Stop it." This hissed in a curt tone to his hapless captive, as if chiding a child for being a nuisance while the grown-ups are talking.

Another glance over his shoulder to the swordswoman, eyes gleaming as they reflect the flickering torchlight. There is something in his body language in that instant, his posture reminiscent of a predator protecting its kill from a rival, perhaps; a certain tension in his limbs, a certain tilt to his head and curl to his lip, a certain warning in his gaze.

Stay back. Mine.

And then the impression is gone and he's speaking again, polite tone at odds with his bearing the moment before; voice slightly raised for Ariane's benefit, and hopefully to reassure the unfortunate young man he's trying to restrain.

"I really don't think that's necessary. He's agreed to cooperate, and - as he says - I've promised he won't be harmed as long as he does so."

All quite reasonable and sensible and civilised, of course. One does not simply murder helpless captives, after all. What kind of monster would do that?

[Carnath-Emory]

You expect them to struggle. The one she'd caught upon the tavern's lawn a year ago certainly had; he'd spoken no answers to her furious questions, but he'd certainly squirmed when the bloody work had begun. They are not immune to discomfort. But this is the first time she's heard one beg.

Even a reformed monster has to smile a little, at that.

But not for too particularly long, for they've work to do here, and Sventon is a part. Why, in a sense you could say that Sventon's existence is a hindrance, the obstacle that they must overcome in order to move on to something else. From that perspective, it shouldn't seem so very odd that a frown's begun to trouble the swordwoman's brow, as she notes Cinnabar's ... reluctance.

"There's nothing to be had of him," she counters Sventon's hasty pleas, and with a hiss of steel upon leather that likely won't comfort him much. With Renne's dagger freed, she has begun to close on them, it being her way to end the obstacle first, and discuss the consequences of it after. With the cultist already pinned, it will be only a moment's work to grasp the hair beneath that hood, draw the neck back, introduce Prime's dagger to his acolytes thin throat --

He is crouched over what he's claimed as his own. A dagger is bared in his hand; his body readies to drag that claim from her reach.

-- but it will not be that way. Not yet. Better suited to discerning gesture than words, the swordswoman has found reason to hold her ground. For a little.

"He surely has. With a knife to my throat, I would do the same." The lips are a thin, uneven line; these eyes yield far less than one might hope for. "Finish him. He has nothing for us. We hold better than him already."

[Sventon]

It was Cinnabar's reproach that put an end to his panicked struggle. He realized how pathetic he was right now, but he would just have to be disgusted with himself later - if there was going to be a later.

It was Cinnabar's affirmation of the promise that put an end to his breathing. Sventon found himself holding his breath, a knot of it tightening in his throat and chest.

Then, at the sound of Carnath-Emory's knife sliding from its sheath, he spilled out his breath as though it were gushing blood from a blade-wound. Tears began to gather in his eyes again, and waiting for the inevitable was taking its toll on his sanity.

Sventon did not interupt this time; his bruised face remained to the floor, and he shut his eyes to pray silently to Him for mercy.

[Rattrap]

Athena looked at the guardsman somewhat quizzically. "Friends? I don't even..." Ariane's name came up and she went quiet, though hardly in any foreboding sense. No, a smile crept to her face instead. "Let me know when you plan to use it," Athena had told the swords woman after their spar, referring to her blade. Sure enough...

"Will do," she replied to the Janerio man and headed toward the caves, stopping to check on Acteon. "Ouch. Hey, those guys who shot you are friends, I think. What's going on, here?"

It would not be a big surprise if Acteon took her for a hostile, considering he'd just been shot from the trees, and here this woman emerges with a few-too-many swords.

[Cinnabar]

The apprentice crouches lower as Ariane draws a blade - that blade which he has seen put to so much work in the short time he's known her - tensed as if to spring as she approaches. But she stops, and he remains still for the moment, albeit watching her closely, no trace to be seen of his customarily genial demeanour. Deadly serious on this point, it seems, and silently thankful that Sventon has ceased his struggling. He keeps a firm grip on the man's neck for now, though, just in case.

"No. There is no need for it."

He speaks quietly but clearly, not so much as if arguing a position as if stating a manifest fact, as if it is already decided. Which it evidently is, to his mind. For the swordswoman's benefit, though, he elaborates.

"This I have explained to him, and this he understands: if he fights or proves a threat, I will end him myself. But he has agreed to behave himself, and so I will not have him harmed. This I have promised."

He allows that to sink in for the moment, then turns his attention back to the task at hand. His dagger slices at the shoulder of the cultist's robe (cutting mere cloth rather than skin and flesh) before being sheathed again at his hip. With a quick motion he tears off a long, wide strip of fabric - the better part of the sleeve, in all truth - and finally releases his grip upon Sventon's neck in order to take hold of his wrists and bind them firmly behind his back. Enough to be most assuredly secure without being cruelly so. He speaks quietly as he works, brisk and businesslike movements of surprisingly strong hands.

"He ran. His fellows threw themselves against our weapons to die for their god, but he ran. He is no zealot."

The rest he leaves unsaid for now, trusting to Ariane to work out the implications.

[Carnath-Emory]

Deadly serious, is crouched Cinnabar, and for a time it is their sole point of common ground.

"'Prove'," she echoes, no stranger to the denial of another man's facts. "I can prove him a threat very readily. But in fact, I needn't at all -- you may ask him these things himself, yes? How it was to hold the children's arms, when his fellows carved at their eyes. How it was to batter and break and terrify, all for a god that's no god at all -- did you know," she continues, and if Cinnabar is become less genial, well, she's taken up that torch for him; the tone is mild in its every aspect.

He could not know to recognise that for anger.

"Did you know," she's continuing, "that for a time, the bodies were so twisted that we couldn't easily mark them for human? Knees up about their ears, you see. Spines -- " her hand wrings the life from empty air "-- twisted. Oh, he's a zealot. Best hope that he is, else he has worse to fear than us, yes? For it's his courage that's weak, or his Belief, and his god's not fond of that ..."

At some point during this, Ariane had begun to close on them, and that approach continues even now. The dagger is a subtle gleam between her fingers, low and close at her side; the shoulder very slightly leads.

"Ask him. And then if you lack the will for it yet, I'll finish him myself. But do not be deceived by this pidar gnoinyj. Their god wears a hundred faces.

So do his beasts."

[Minty]

But Ignas saw no men outside. He could not hear heartbeats, nor could he see them. His senses were refined and sharp, but not good enough to detect stationary men who knew what they were doing. A woman comes running in. They're under attack! She speaks. He is up. Between her and Quincy and Acteon. He will protect.

"None of your business.", his voice is gruff. He's speaking clearly. To intimidate, and to draw the attention of those outside. After all, if they shoot him, he'll know where they are. Ignas will not let her pass. Not easily. They are past the time to gather more men. And even if her voice is recognizable, it is that of -shouting- heard behind them. If there is a spy to attack them, if there is an enemy that has tailed, it is her. He steps forward, looming down at her, getting close.

[Cinnabar]

"It is true that I do not properly understand what I am meddling in. It is also true that I do not understand Him. But I would very much like to understand, and so I require more information."

He jerks at the ends of the cloth strip to tighten the final knot in Sventon's improvised bindings, then tugs at them experimentally to make sure they'll hold. He seems satisfied, and gives the cultist a friendly pat on the shoulder. There we go, all done. He pauses to regard the man's face for a time, though he continues speaking to Ariane.

"Dead men tell no tales, so they say, which is why I would like this fellow - whose name I have totally neglected to ask, my apologies sir - to remain alive, so I can ask him about things. He seems like a reasonable sort, so I am sure we can come to some agreement."

His head tilts slightly at the swordswoman's cautious approach, though he does not look round. When she is perhaps a couple of arm's lengths away there is a fluid, almost relaxed movement from him and he is abruptly pointing his dagger at her in a most emphatic warning against coming closer. A few heartbeats pass before he actually looks round to face her, grey of his eyes glittering like quicksilver in the torchlight. He stands smoothly, a step taken to place himself between Ariane and her intended target.

"And may I say for the third time that I have promised him that he shall not be harmed. Please do not attempt to make an oathbreaker of me; I will not stand for it. And much as I would prefer not to harm him, I would also prefer not to harm you."

So saying, the dagger is sheathed once more. If she is so desirous of spilling the cultist's blood, it is clear that she will likely have to spill Cinnabar's also.

"A question for a question: how is it you can revile him for murdering the helpless, and yet seem more than prepared to do as much to him?"

[Jirai]

An elbow nudged her friend, the veiled girl's face turning as she glanced here and there.

"What should we do, Agnie?" She muttered to her friend. "I can... can... find people..." A hand waved a bit vaguely along with that comment. "Y'know..."

[Carnath-Emory]

"Then you will do better to question Renne on this matter, who is better aquainted with Him than any other living man. Or even Thadius -- do you recall that one? If he yet lives, and ser, I hope that is not so."

A cautious approach, which has attention for such matters as angle, as distance; for such obstacles as gates and doors and uneven cavern walls. A swordswoman's gaze measures these things in term of lunge and thrust, more for habit's sake than intent's, but the end result is much the same: that when Cinnabar's is turned her way, Ariane understands that he has timed the gesture very well.

At the distance of several arm's lengths, he has threatened her. At that, or one particularly sharp lunge.

It surely can't surprise the young man, whose intent is clear, that she's drawn her own dagger almost immediately into a backhanded guard, low across her narrow body. Nor should it that her flesh has aquired a gleam to match the mercury of his eyes, but there's no telling, at times like these. Still, there it is: the stuff has freed from her veins as easily as she exhales, sparkling almost immediately at the scarf-bound throat, the clear brow.

"If you hold your oaths so precious, ser... I advise you offer them less freely. I advise particularly that you do not offer them on my behalf."

Cinnabar lowers his dagger; so too, after a time, does Ariane. But not without some very slight lift of the chin, not without an iron-flat gaze set evenly upon his own. He means to stand between her and his prize, and she answers this with tolerance -- and quiet defiance. No ground is yielded here.

"I do not conform to your will because of an accident of speech," she is concluding, then. "Ser, I revile him as I do a crazed dog, and with exactly as much pity."

[Cinnabar]

"His fellows, perhaps, were crazed dogs. He is not." A moment's pause to recall how the other robed figures had charged into the fray without hesitation. The ones that had not been cut down without warning, of course.

"In any case, maybe it is as you say. Maybe his courage is weak, or his faith, or his devotion. You say his god has no patience for those who fail in their duties. I'm sure he knows the price of that failure better than we do, though I from what you have said I can imagine that it would not be pleasant in the slightest. If they inflict such things on innocents who have done them no wrong, consider what they might inflict on those who have proven deficient in their faith."

Though he addresses Ariane, his words could be as much for Sventon's benefit as for hers. He is determined, certainly, but he keeps his tone level, reasonable, persuasive. It is not clear who he might be attempting more to win over, the swordswoman or the cultist. Perhaps both.

"Maybe we could offer him something better? If he has done these things you say, perhaps a chance to redeem himself - and he'd be in a far better position to put right what has been done if he's still alive, rather than dead with his throat cut in this miserable cave. Simply because he's of no use to his god doesn't mean he's of no use to anyone."

He shrugs lightly. Perhaps a calculated level of diffidence to the gesture, perhaps a careful evaluation of what might serve to sway the swordswoman's resolve. A gambit, arguments moved carefully into place like pieces on a gameboard.

"At the very least I suspect that his family would miss him, and that's not something to be visited on anyone lightly."