The Kaczmarek Killer

[Teron_Ashfiend]

A hot wind sizzles against his armor, sweeping up ash that is immediately cooled by his chilling presence. The chilling, miasmic aura is the first to greet all who draw near, the winged creature that lands behind him, the approaching Constable and Kaczmarek. Its invisible coils seep and slither, bringing with them the slow ache of the grave. As the stranger alights to the ground behind him, inhuman and hungry for violence, he spares the creature a once over from the searing fire of his ever-furious gaze. His twisted wings are enough to give him pause, his outline and visage twisting, melting to form another's.

A snarl then, dismissive of his own thoughts and whatever this one wanted. There were messages to send tonight. There were interlopers to be dealt with. He notes Calomel's resistance to the flame, as well as the girl's fluid grace that pours and flows like Ariane's armor itself. Yet he afford the pair a slow, steady smile hidden away beneath the folds of a gray scarf.

Mailed hands joined about the handle of Deliverance, the towering Fiend twisted with surprising grace, long used to the metal cage that had held him for so long. As the pitchfork tines scrape over his armor, leaving ashen trails that sizzle and pop in his chilling aura, he swings his forearms against the heated metal hoping to snap the blades off. During this Deliverance is rising and, after his bludgeoning attempt upon the man's weapon, the blade descends for Cinnabar himself.

The sword cuts a bloody, killing arc through the air meant to rob the Constable of head and life in one fell swoop.

[Cinnabar]

The combination of the jarring impact with unyielding metal and that swiping blow from the Ashfiend's forearms sees Calomel's pitchfork snapping just behind the head, leaving a jagged point of splintered wood as the metal tines spin off into the flickering shadows. Disarmed, one might think, robbed of his weapon.

This still leaves him with a good six feet of handle, however, and it's this which he's bringing up in a staff-fighter's grip to meet the descent of Deliverance. Sturdy hazelwood strikes at the flat of that blade, and as contact is made one hand holds firm as pivot; the other applies force to parry the blade and push it aside as the Constable ducks beneath and to one side, a smooth twist of motion that would have the Constabulary's sergeant-at-arms nodding in approval.

Because this is what they do, this is how they fight, the grey-clad men and women of the Constabulary: staff-work, facing off against an armed opponent with a length of wood and a certain amount of training in leverage and how to apply it. Not blocking but redirecting, diverting blows just enough to miss rather than trying to stop them dead; wide swings to keep the foe at a distance; thrusting strikes with the momentum of wood and muscle behind them, applying great force to a small area; sweeping blows which use the length of the weapon as a tool, magnifying a small movement into a larger one that turns the end of the staff into a blur of motion that can smash bone and pulp muscle.

So this is Calomel in the moments after that blade's strike; furious and yet wielding that anger, channelling it and directing it and using it to fuel his movements as he strives against the ghoul. Unharmed for now, for all that he is swathed in smoke and sparks from his smouldering clothes, for all that that witchfire still crawls across his skin; one end of the impromptu staff used to divert Deliverance, then his grip shifts and the other end swings in a backhand swipe at the Ashfiend's head.

Whether or not that strikes he is moving again with bewildering speed, booted feet following patterns of steps learned by rote and practise and endless repetition, back, sidestep, rear foot planted firmly and then used to push off from the ground as he lunges forwards to thrust the sharp and splintered end of the fork handle at the eyes that blaze incandescent beneath the creature's hood, stepping back and out of that blackened sword's reach in the followup. His movements are swift, inhumanly so, the ends of the staff thrumming as he sweeps it through the night air and back to a ready position in preparation for another assault.

All the while his fury is a storm, a tempest that hammers relentlessly against the ghoul; more than mere human anger, it is a sense of tangible wrath that speaks threats of utter destruction, that command submission, retreat, immediate and headlong flight from the doom made manifest in this silver-haired young man.

[Vanidor]

The horsemen hurtled across the field, a motion of the high held sabre directing the flow as a damn directed water. Here was Cinnabar, resolutely facing the daemonic creature, broken pitchfork held like a spear for truth. Here was Aeryn, cutting to the left and then driving hard at the horizontal. They meant to ride right over Ashfiend, by the way Darius and Ven lowered their lances. A good foot of steel, set upon six foot of sturdy oak, flickered in the firelight. Glinting deadly in the night.

Aeryn at the fore, he was angling his horse to directly intersect with Teron, massive blade and cold-wrought pain be damned. The other six men fanned out as well, three moving to the opposite of where the Marshal and his group charged, preparing to slice and charge from that direction. The other three, they would attempt to bypass the fight all together and make instead for the huts.

See here, as well, blind courage as those three would make to -plunge- into the burning mess of hut or barn, in an attempt to save what could be saved.

[Carnath-Emory]

Hatred and anger; make them shriek, encourages some nameless thing --

And Ariane does.

Or shouts, at least, because this scene is livid with noise as with firelight, so that even the heavy hooves of the black warhorse seem dimmed by comparison. Those are surely homes, which blaze yonder, surely barns with them, and the small crowd milling about them are almost certainly the ones who've fled their flames. She cannot make out Rhaena -- too much motion, too much flame -- but that there are bodies of all sizes, certainly; that there is little organisation and so much panic. Nearer strides something far more terrible: the Ashfiend for certain, and that roaring thing grown close to him is clearly Cinnabar; with him are two figures that she can't quite make out, except that one has dropped, shrouded in flames -

At such times as these, Ariane must almost regret that she has no gods to petition.

- and approaching of a sudden is the dull roar of hooves, a charge led by a cry that is keenly familiar to her ears. Oh, consider this: that these homes burn, as Orvere had once burned, as Zwill had once burned, so that she is very much familiar with these circumstances indeed. For now, the 'Fiend is left to the capable hands of Constable and Janeiro; for now, because she sees a desperate, clinging need elsewhere, so that:


"Poslushay ty!", she is shouting at what remains of that crowd, of those huddling, churning peasants. "Ne pizdi, ne pizdetc!" Because they are Kaczmareks, some of them; will know the old words, some of them, and perhaps that will be enough to pierce the haze of horrified panic. And meantime, the great warhorse Ch'rnyj Voron is wheeled sharply about, and driven galloping across a new trajectory, for the Ashfiend is not presently her target, not at all. That crowd is, and she means to place herself between it and the 'Fiend.

"Khue'vye den'ki nastali!", she cries as she charges for them, another black shape looming towards them this night, and no less ironclad than the Ashfiend -- except that when she draws her sword, it's to direct them back towards the road.

"The Constable is here!" she is insisting. "Janeiro is here! That way to the town, ty'nado idti," as the great warhorse wheels and rears upon his hinds across the dusty, trampled earth. "You must go now, go!"

As if she were certain that they will hear her -- and so they shall. Because she wills that it be so, she requires that it be so, and as she rings a dull coin again and again against the brass pommel of her saddle, a subtle Power answers that need.

[Sadism]

What to do? What to do? Does he sit and watch to see if this Ashfiend - this new terror that stalks Myrken Wood - can handle so many at once? Does he linger and do nothing? And yet, the cries of panic, the shouts of command, the overall cacophony is blissful. There is much pain in all of it, much pain to fill the night, and he can bathe in it.

The eye swivels as he maintains his perch, a darkened shape lingering behind the Fiend, heedless of chill and heat alike. The fire holds no fear for him, as much as it might for those who are trapped within, for those who might dive in to offer aid.

He hisses to himself, a sound lost in all the commotion. "That will not do. Not at all. I haven't nearly had my fill..."

Fingers dig into the earth of a sudden, grasping at it forcibly as he pushes with his legs, bursting into an animal-like run towards the flames, and the newly arrived men, those three that wanted to save lives. Leathery wings would spread and snap down as he pushed himself up and away from the ground, taking to wing, to flight, to traverse the distance faster.

Callisto began to cackle with glee as he ripped overhead of those that might have offered resistance to his passage, hands trailing in the wind behind him, collecting the very night itself around them. Darkening, swallowing them, globes of blackness that shone with a purple aura. One for each hand, one for each of Vanidor's men, lobbed casually at them even as he folded those wings against his back and hurtled himself like a living missile at the third. Fists held before him, he'd aim to hammer into man, to plow him into the fire he'd been so ready to head into, though not in a way that could at all be considered safe.

[The`League]

... and the coin that rings against brass pommel is answered - and swiftly. Upon the third clang of it against her pommel - there is a figure beside her. Dressed in dull rust-colored leathers - with mantle over shoulder - and a hood over it's face. At it's sides are thick iron-rods, and it's gloved hands curl quietly with soft hisses. There is smoke, there is flame - there are people fighting. And dying, and there's fire *much* fire infront of it. He has been called, this Rust - and there is danger inside this burning home. Those trapped within.


"Save the lives of humans, at any cost. At any price." - It had been bidden once - and so it shall be.


And soon, the figure departs from Ariane's side - like some sort of behemetic wraith - straight for the flames - and damnation - headlong into the flames to find *people* still trapped inside and bring them to safety.

[Vanidor]

The first man, Daeric, took the violet-hued ball to the back. The wards that ran up and down the pauldrons of all soldiers of the First flared with green were-light. Yet the wards that maintained the lesser soldiers were mainly for physical things, to help ward off arrows or a poorly aimed blow with sword or hammer. Not the sort of thing that would spoil the hit of something truly mystical and magical. The force of the blow, and the energies discharged, blew the man off of the back of his horse, sending him flying and rolling into the dirt. Daeric lay still, his sabre flung out before him. He did not move again.

The other was clipped upon the shoulder, again with a green flare of light to accompany the blow. Jhaed yanked hard on the reigns and peeled to the left, his own sabre whipping free of the scabbard as he searched for the direction of this assault. There was no clue, other than the fact that the ball had nailed him from above. The skies were scanned, eyes searching. But here, and now, it was too late to see the form speed through the sky as it had already passed from where he had been.

Brother-Corporal Makaan was the last, the one who had been target for the most direct strike. Closest to the flames as well, and the barn before him that he'd been directed towards. And so then it was that he would also bear the full brunt of a hit to the back. It was something that men of the Order trained for, being knocked from their horses. The only issue was that it wasn't often that they were directed -into- fire, even if they had been planning on doing so to begin with.

Still, Makaan was a veteran enough to know when to kick the horse or to leap the saddle. In this case, as his back was hammered and his momentum directing him forward, he would pump legs and -leap- from the saddle. Leap into the awaiting maw of fire, eyes wide behind the metal-plate of his crested helmet, and arms raised up before him.

[channe]

At Ariane's shout, Magda sweeps up the children, one for each hand, and one for Rhaena as well, and calls terrible Dauntless-words at her eldest and his wife, until finally, they come, too, the woman near-blind with tears, Piotr stock-faced as if none of this is happening, Giertruda and her husband pushing Karol's wheelbarrow -- they do not want to leave --

-- and Magda simply whirls, pushing Otto on -- "I will not go," she says, in Dauntless, and turns her eyes to the fight.



Agnieszka is a quick, terrible spirit; would she were in her Janeiro garb, she'd have leather and metal to still whatever physical blows the Ashfiend would give, but this -- this was a party, with dancing, to share a meal with their emancipator. Her armor was someplace else. But this: this is more than a chatterbattle in the Dagger yard, so much more, and she is moving --

-- moving almost inhumanly quick, throwing herself at the Ashfiend with some talent. Cinnabar moves to hammer Ashfiend, and Agnieszka is using her speed to her advantage; she believes Ashfiend will have most of his attention on keeping burning Cinnabar away, and so a rapier's death-quick assault, on her terribly quick feet, may be something he won't see until it's too late. Skilled. Vicious. Unavoidable, unless one is fast enough to deal with both Cinnabar and Agnieszka at the same time.

And even if that happens: there are the Brothers behind her to bolster force and spirit, and then it will be one against ten, and then, Ashfiend: her dagger will be aimed at finding your heart, over and over and over again. That is the kind of passion you face from the girl; from her brother, as well, who is staggering up, burned terribly, throwing himself now towards his hut, towards Laranna --

Agnieszka calls:

Pizda -- chyort pizda --



And later, Aeryn's men and strange Rust may tell the ragged survivors:

We tried.
There wasn't much left.
Don't worry for them.
It was over quickly.

Only the widower, the mason Stone, is left alive in the third hut, badly burned but breathing: they'll find the body of the elder Massry sister, and that of her brother and her brother's wife, a Dolokov, in the second. And in the first, the first to fall to the Ashfiend: red-haired Laranna Kaczmarek and her nephew Mateusz. The quartz stone around her neck -- a wedding gift -- will serve as identification enough.

(NOTE: modification of Dominik's direction)

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Cinnabar's make-shift spear thunders against the side of his hooded countenance, jerking his head aside before it just as quickly turns to face him once more. Crimson eyes alive with livid flame searing, unblinking, unwavering as he presses forward batting aside the secondary thrust with a quick counter-swing of the great sword held by armored hands. Around him the grass begins to wilt, high blighted presence cursing and withering all life around him even as that same dread chill seeks to rob the mortal combatants of strength and stamina.

The woman descends then, an armed serpent whose fangs strike with a coarse, staccato rhythm against an unyielding, blackened breastplate that wards off the repeated attempts for his withered, stilled heart. Though he stands two against one, he allows the woman's furious assault to propel him, step by step, closer to the burning ruin.

"You have already lost," he begins in a terrible voice of an echoing, grating rumble. Hidden lips twist into a vicious sneer even as her weapons ring out against his armor, his sword moving and twisting with a surprising deftness to deflect many of her attacks but certainly not all. Though his tread is a slow retreat, keeping him still locked in combat, neither voice nor tread tire. Nor does blood mar her weapons save with the painting of her blades with some fetid, rust-colored dust.

"Those you care for are dead," he continues, his words a hammer aimed at her heart. The shadows of those grew long around the fire, as they began to edge closer. Soon, he considered, they would be close enough. Deliverance twists in his gauntleted fists, turning aside several of her attacks and accepting those he does not. For his part the blood-baptized blade darts in seeking to catch her off-balance on occasion but he is more than content to let her dominate the conflict.

For a little while longer at least.

[Cinnabar]

The Ashfiend's riposte is met with thin air, Calomel dropping and rolling aside before rising to a crouch and lashing out with staff-tip for the fiend's armoured knee. Then he's moving to stand again and assume a fighter's stance, weight distributed evenly, poised upon the balls of his feet.

As the fiend draws back with gloating and taunts the Constable presses forwards, resolute and vengeful; his improvised staff beats a counterpoint to Agnieszka's blows, swiping at the ghoul's head; whirling the weapon with brutal force to strike at his wrists, hoping to knock his blows awry; jabbing at his face, his torso, any joints in that blackened armour that present themselves. Above all he maintains this incessant assault, moving in light and dancing steps after the fiend, circling round to divide the ghoul's attention between himself and Agnie.

The creature's chill aura swathes him like a funeral shroud, but the proximity of those blazing abodes and the frenetic, ceaseless movement of the Constable's limbs keeps it at bay for now, that and the white-hot furnace of rage that seethes at the heart of him; still he advances, relentless, implacable, striking again and again, barely allowing time enough for one blow to land before flowing into the next attack, the pitchfork's handle become some whirring half-seen blur in his hands.

Too late for those the monster has already slain, too late and nothing will change that; but as long as Cinnabar and Agnieszka and those who even now race to their side can keep the Ashfiend engaged there remains hope for the rest of them, if they have the good sense to flee.

[Sadism]

With Brother-Corporal Makaan in front of him, it's relatively smooth sailing into the barn for Callisto. After all, there is the weight of an armored soldier to clear any bothersome debris out of the way. Inside, amidst the flames, he'd crash to the ground, the momentum of his dive throwing him away from the man he'd smashed into.

Callisto would rise, grinning wide though only half his face was visible. Long, straight black hair concealed the entire left side of his face, untouched by the heat, undisturbed by their roll.

"It saddens me that I can't take the time to hear you sing with pain. I must see what that fellow does next. He's interesting, you see."

Obviously, someone who could stand so casually amidst flames, speak so casually, had to be unhealthy in ways that bandages and doctors could not cure. Even with the fire blazing about them, he stood as if the heat did not touch him. It did not, but the light...the light was not so pleasing, and even if Callisto did not acknowledge it's bothersome presence, his body did.

Let Makaan note how those wings, those leathery appendages so very like a bats, no longer exist. Instead, a multitude of black tendrils rise from his back, fanning like a peacock's plume. Even the matte-black leather of his..outfit..has come to life, portions peeling away to wave frantically much like those which were borne upon his back.

"I'll just have to be content knowing you died in here. Knowing so many died because you couldn't help them."

Any attack Makaan might have expected, did not come in the form that presented itself. Callisto spun on his heel and darted with surprising - and quite human - speed for the nearest support. Both arms were criss-crossed, the blades flashing as they bit into the beam with considerable ease.

[Vanidor]

Makaan glanced upwards, seeing the raging inferno that surrounded them. Him and the beast and the dead within this cottage. He smelt the sickly-sweet scent of burning flesh. It reminded him of Boros in upper Almark, and Aberford in what was now Tempestia. The breath he forced himself to take was painful, both from the ride across the burning ground and the weight of the creature that had ridden him like a boat across a lake of fire.

And here now the creature was talking to him, hissing in a voice that made his head thunder with pain. Makaan ripped his helmet off of his head, tossing it aside. The flesh of his face was sizzled, scarred from the flame. At least the pain was lessening. He thought it had something to do with the heat, and the fact that he knew his time was coming. Especially now that the creature was raising and thrusting for the blazing beams above.

Brother-Corporal Makaan made a weak laugh, then spat blood that sizzled upon his heat-blacked breastplate. His next words, surely made as the blazing roof had had enough and sought to extinguish his life was simplicity in action.

"Go... Fuck yourself."

And surely flaming debris would sweep down to bathe the soldier with ruinous death.

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

At the scene with the Ashfiend, Marshal Karolinger was leaping from the back of his mount, landing with a heavy thump as his two armsmen continued on past the four of them. Was it just four, now? In either case, the chance for all three to successfully charge the creature was gone, and so he had decided to proceed on foot. The other two would move to assist their fallen, and the other three prepared themselves for a charge, if it could be made.

"Beast of the Abyss! Foul Daemon of Undeath! To you I bring the Light, and It's Judgement! Burn, Heretic! BURN!"

Cinnabar was made of lightening, with his makeshift quarterstaff. Agnieszka a dart of quicksilver with the rapier that she bore. Aeryn, however, was almost as massively armoured as Teron himself, with high cresting pauldrons and a helm that protected all but the jaw and sides of his face. The dolphin that seemed to dance in metallic water, sat there upon his left shoulder pauldron, was wreathed in green witchfire. It seemed to swim with the currants of energy that washed o'er his shoulders. The pentagrammatic wards were flaring into life, making their effort known at defeating the Ghouls overwhelming aura of seeping cold. Surely, Aeryn would feel the drain later, if he survived.

For in this case, the armoured Marshal surged forward and prepared to slam himself, mystical sabre and all, into the rear quarter of the Ashfiend...

[channe]

Witchfire.
A burning man who does not burn.

Surely, Agnieszka will have the time later to marvel at these two men; surely, she will ask Aeryn for a saber because the rapier has done so little against the Ashfiend, and ask Cinnabar why her brother's skin crackled burnt and his did not; but for now? Right now, she's screaming obscenities -- and fighting harder.

If the Ashfiend wanted to draw strength from their bodies he was doing so -- until, of course, he claimed responsibility for those deaths, at which point he just spurs her on more; she yells and pushes forward as he retreats, and certainly where her sword hits, she wonders, should it not be slowing the creature? Incessant is a good word for it, between the girl and Cinnabar.

And here is Aeryn; for her part, she sees him coming, and she moves to make her attacks *next* to Cinnabar, so that the Ashfiend does *not* -- until, of course, he makes that splendid battle-cry. Ah, well; the move still allows the Brotherhood boys enough space to apply the force they're bringing to this terrible dance.


The home burns; Dominik runs closer, too, Teron's flames leaving burns down his arm and some of his face; he tries to come closer to the burning hut, but the heat is too strong. He was able to get the fire out quickly, except for that one area; and now, he's running on adrenaline. Physically, he'll be fine.

Physically.

"'Ranna!"

(EDIT for language: i should not try to do this so early in the morning)
(EDIT again, for Dominik language: haven't had coffee yet, ARG.)

[Jirai]

Rhaena

Ariane's voice was perfectly timed - the girl dropped her shielding attempt and urged the others towards the swordswoman. Away from this hellish scene. A child in one hand, the other for Magda's shoulder.

"You must get the children out of here, Magda!" She pleaded with the older woman. "Take them away from here!" And she was thrusting the child she carried towards Piotr's wife. "I will get Dominik." For she'd heard the shouts and seen more than she'd liked. Assuming the child was taken from her, she would whirl about, moving hurriedly for the source of the shouts.

Of course, this would bring her even closer to the raging emotions that were blending so nicely with her own, right now.

[Carnath-Emory]

Callisto is beyond Ariane's means, and beyond her concern as well: Karolinger's men see to that, she has a firm faith in their skills. A distracted eye, as well, for there are precious buildings caught up in flames, towards one of which faithful Rust has begun to stride, as surely as if her heart had directed him. Precious people, as well -- she cannot see Magda Kaczmarek, which fact terrifies, but she hears Dominik, hears the shriek of that name and recognises its timbre very well. So that
[INDENT]
it is nothing to send her will at those crumbling buildings, nothing at all to demand an Answer of them. nothing, to peel away the look of them just as she'd done in Aithne months ago; to scour what remains for the truth: that Magda Kaczmarek is not dying in there, that Magda Kaczmarek does not burn[/INDENT]
there is a glance flung that way as if it meant to pierce dark and chaos alike, all glittering helm and frowning eyes, and when it discovers that Dominik remains intact, it moves onwards. It's as well that Rhaena urges her charges towards the swordswoman, but that's to be a short-lived convenience, for there is some shout that is clearly Calomel's, there is a gathering of figures there that's briefly swallowed by flame, and of a sudden something unidentifiable, some sensation --

Which drives sickly horror through her gut. Which sends the iron of her blood to outraged seething. Which makes a livid, writhing thing of the quicksilver which armours her, so that in nauseous terror she is wheeling the warhorse around, not to flee from Calomel and the Ashfiend...


But to charge.