The Dread Haunting of the Myrken Wood Mill

[Glenn]

Betrayal! A white hot realization. Damn his stubbornness. He wanted to get through to Zilliah so badly. Solena hadn't liked this idea at all. If she knew he had gone off with the fae, she'd have downright forbidden it, but it had all been in the moment. He thought he had finally found a way to force middle ground, to breach the gap between himself and the unknowable so that the shadows would stop moving around him. DOING things was what mattered. It's what mattered with Niall, and maybe Zilliah would work the same way.

The fae wasn't human though. He didn't think the same way Elliot did, and Elliot would never, ever be able to wrap his head around that. So this felt like betrayal instead of fun. Granted, so much of that was that the Brown boy took what he did so very seriously. This was his life now. Skulking. Stealing. Sneaking. And before long, hitting people from behind. He had made some futile grasps for something else, subconscious and pathetic, really, and maybe this was one of the last of them, but it was well past the point of mattering. There was no going back to being a squire now. He had a taste of it, and it had a hold on him.

Now he was careening forward, however, and lessons took over. He could gracefully dodge out of the way at the cost of his balance or his control, or he could storm forward, driving his foot down upon the poor unsuspecting sleeper, really planting it for a moment so he could keep control. That's what mattered. Control of your body. Control of the situation. Oh, his new victim would be awake now, but the room was dark and he would be hurting, disoriented. So Elliot would dart into the shadows, cloak whisking around him. He would regroup and do whatever next on HIS terms.

[Pantha]

He was very much beginning to enjoy this little outing with Elliot up until the moment he feels the sense of betrayal in Elliot's mind. His eyes open now and he looks up at the stumbling boy with confusion instead of what should have been laughter. He winces at the pained sound of the trampled child as he is awoken so rudely from his sleep. And the ghost runs away. Brilliant. That does bring back the slightest of smirks on his face. He stares sinisterly at Elliot and then opens his mouth to call out into the darkness of the mill frantically. "GHOST!” He then scrambles out the window in an attempt to make it back out onto the narrow ledge outside. He didn't need to stay around to watch the madness unfold, what, linked as he was with Elliot and all.

[Waldemar]

Padalec had been awake for some time, bundled up in his bed of a simple straw mattress and rough woollen blankets on the kitchen floor; he'd been woken by the mill machinery creaking into brief motion on the floor below, and had watched the shutters pulled back to reveal the two intruders against the dim starlight from outside. He'd remained as still as he could, feigning sleep, hoping that they'd not notice him in his woollen nest, that they'd pass him by entirely.

When the dishware started flinging itself to smash upon the floor he'd closed his eyes tight and curled into a ball, unable to keep a whimper of fear trapped behind his teeth. Too much noise, it seemed, as in the next moment a heavy tread fell upon him, carrying the weight of an off-balance thiefling roughly shoved.

A wet snap from somewhere under Elliot's foot was immediately followed by a thin shriek of pain and a frantic kicking at the blankets as the sleeper scrabbled back to wedge himself in a corner between cabinet and wall, one arm hugged protectively against his chest; a boy, no more than ten years old, wide wet eyes desperately searching the shadows, nose streaming as he swallowed gulping sobs. The squealing of stairs from overhead grew closer still, hastening at the noises from the kitchen.

Outside, meanwhile, the treeline was alive with the movement of whispering leaves and crackling twigs, though the treetops stood motionless above. Between the millwheel and the forest the scarecrow waited patiently, arms outstretched, blank sackcloth face lifted sightlessly towards Zilliah's perch.

[Glenn]

The boy was many things, some of them craven, irritating, and completely and utterly ridiculous, but in a moment like this he was increasingly professional. He increasingly gave in to his training, his new instincts, his new... behaviors, who he was becoming. There was no turning back now. They were past that point. He was past so many points. He stepped on some poor innocent bastard, a kid. It should have brought Elliot back to his senses, should have been a sign, but it was damned dark in this room, and Elliot's reading was developing of things other than signs.

He pulled the hood over his head with one hand and slipped the ring on with the other. Zilliah had his chance. Trust was over. The fae had his fun. Someone got hurt at Elliot's hand, or foot as it was. There was consequence to that. Now though, he was professional. Disruption. Elliot would cause all of this and more with a single-minded determination. He swept up the cloak and darted about the room, overending anything he could manager. A quick, scattered strike. Install confusion everywhere through noise and pure, unbridled chaos, and in the swirl of it, he would be gone into the night, leaving the lot of them picking back up their lives and themselves.

[Pantha]

His already wide eyes grow wider as he catches sight of the scarecrow. How did it get from the garden to this side of the building? He is distracted by the sound of Elliot upturning things inside the room. Just as he is about to call out to him telepathically, they link is broken. Was the boy seriously going further into the building? He falters with the decision before him, flee or go after him? He gives in and climbs back into the window. He immediately sees the boy in pain and he fumbles with his pockets until he comes away with his coin purse. He drops it to the floor next to the child and whispers hurried apologies as he swiftly moves after Elliot. He overturns a thing or two in his pursuit. He hopes he can catch up with Elliot before whatever outside does!

[Waldemar]

The injured apprentice could only cower amid the destruction, one arm raised protectively to shield his head from crashing crockery and overturned furniture; the fae's gift and apology went unheeded for the moment, lost in the tumult.

In the midst of it all the door slammed open to reveal the master of the mill, roused from his bed by the intruders' rampage, walking stick in one hand and candlestick in the other; wild-haired, bleary-eyed and clad in a sleep-rumpled nightshirt, perhaps the thiefling would be gratified to see his nemesis in so undignified a state. A heartbeat to take in the havoc wreaked on the kitchen before he limped to the window with a wordless shout of rage, heedless of crockery shards scattered beneath his bare feet.

Outside, the scarecrow's head turned to follow the would-be haunters.

With a furious gesture the miller plucked the candle from its holder and flung it after the fleeing intruders. The stick of pale wax tumbling end over end to land in the leaf litter between them and the edge of the woods; a dull thump of heat and a brilliant flash saw it consumed utterly, hours of dim light compressed into a dazzling instant that lit up the clearing brighter than day.

Captured in that moment of radiance and floating purple afterimages came a horde of spindly, hunched figures, crawling from the treeline: the nearer ones no more than a couple of feet tall, bundles of sticks and twigs bound into vaguely human shape with grass and twine, woven with sharp-thorned brambles and briars to snag at cloth and rake at flesh; further back between the trees they were larger, man-sized, wrought from branches and boughs, long arms outstretched to grasp and snare. Their movements were uneven, unnatural, all mismatched limbs and joints in the wrong places, but nonetheless quick; perhaps a dozen of the larger stick-men, a further score of the smaller.

At some silent signal they moved as one, seeking to encircle the rogue and his accomplice in a fence of twisted limbs; from further back in the woods came a crackling and rustling as yet more of the figures closed in on the mill from where they'd lain scattered, dormant and unremarked in the underbrush.

[Glenn]

"I knew it." Elliot Brown grit his teeth. Was he to feel horror at the sight around them? Hardly. Adrenaline was pooling within him. This was a boy who had faced down a thousand horrors in one twisted, psychedelic year. This was a boy who was trained to master his fear. Oh. He felt it. He felt his heart pound and his arm hairs rise up on end. "I knew it." Oh, maybe the grizzled, raspy voice he was putting on to match his clothing and cloak was a bit much but he did seem to relish in it. "DARK. GODDAMNED. MAGIC!" He thrust his arm out in a circle, caring far more about the fact he was right than the fact they were about to get overwhelmed.

Elation. Fear. Adrenaline. Excitement. Satisfaction. Betrayal. And far less regret than one would hope, far, far less than he would have had a year ago. All of these things and more welled within Elliot, and then when he felt it all intermix and flame within him and come to a head, he pulled the ring off once more. They were being surrounded? That was well and fine. All of that emotion would be sent on to Zilliah, an offering, of sorts, and the boy would hold out his arms, lithe and confident. ~Fly us out of here, Zilliah.~

[Pantha]

Was a ghost just yelling about dark magic? Honestly. He has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. His mirth was short lived because no sooner did they scramble back out onto the ledge of the window sill, Elliot has the audacity to take off the ring and demand flight. He grabs holds of the rough wood of the ledge to keep from falling. Well, at least the boy had the sense to keep that request private. It warrants a rather strange look from the fae and and adamant shake of his head. He choices weren't amazing, were they? Fire? Animated thorn monsters? And Elliot holding his arms out to him so insistently. He has no time to think and he just starts climbing up higher, away from the window. The buttons of his skirt are begrudgingly undone and he scales. He could already feel the splinters digging into his fingertips. Lovely. Once he is out of arm's reach of the windowsill and it's very angry owner, he reaching down to help haul Elliot up to him. The sleeves of his shirt are hastily worked free.

Did Elliot see it coming once his shoulders were bare? Were there anything he could even do to stop it if he did? The fae's hand has already taken hold of Elliot's wrist to pull him closer as his fist comes up ready to knock him out. There is some hesitation and a flash of rage in the fae's face but he hesitates and doesn't hit him. He hopes the makeshift guards cannot make it too far out into the forest. Elliot was going to be disappointed at the flight he was about to receive. Let's call it more of a controlled fall. Into trees. It will probably not be pleasant. The expected flash of green light and he yanks Elliot tight against him. How nice of the miller to give him some heat currents from the fire to alight upon! One moment smoke and creaking wood, the next? The stars above as they start to dive down into trees. Everything next is a blur of greenery whipping against clothing and flesh ending in abrupt and rough landing on the thin limb of a tree.

[Waldemar]

This was clearly not a means of escape the mill's guardians had been expecting, inasmuch as they might expect anything. They hesitated, arms reaching futilely upwards as the fae and the tiefling soared above; few of them had faces as such, maybe a stout stick or clump of twigs in place of a head, only here and there a split log with hatchet-strokes for eyes and a mouth. Crude and brutish things, but more than enough to scare off inquisitive yokels or blundering trespassers who might stray too close to the miller's domain.

A pause for the duration of that cumbersome flight, the brushwood servitors halting in their advance, swaying like stalks of corn as they tracked the passage of their quarry overhead. The crash of twigs and branches brought that to an abrupt end, however, and they turned to pour back into the treeline with loping, lurching strides, spreading out to sweep between the scattered trunks like a tide. At the window the miller glared after them for a moment before returning his attention to the kitchen and the damage the interlopers had wrought.

The hunt was on.

[Glenn]

Definitely not a holocaust cloak. If it was, then Elliot could have just burst through the flames dramatically, setting fire to any of the inhuman monstrosities in his path (not Zilliah, the other ones. Right now, Zilliah was back with the on the same page as the rogueling). As it was, the cloak was utterly decimated by the branches. The cloak, all of its never used secret pockets, and a decent amount of Elliot's skin. Thankfully, the cloak had the worst of it. He'd have a few nasty scrapes but for the most part it would be nicks and bruises.

Zilliah hadn't the same sort of protection though, and the first thing the Brown boy does, after discarding the tattered remains of his once mighty cloak was to check upon the fae. ~We need to run. Come on!~

[Pantha]

The never ending well of energy that is Elliot Brown never ceases to amaze him. No sooner were they safe on the branch than the boy was making demands to keep moving! He is only given enough time to draw the back of his hand over a rather unpleasant cut on his face, his sweat stinging the fresh wound as blood is wiped away. He let's out a disgruntled noise and begins to climb down the tree. His wings, though not nearly as large and impressive as say, Drache or Alekei's, are still large enough to become unwieldy in the underbrush. Another flesh of green light when he comes in contact with the ground and he is looking up at Elliot as he too climbs down. His head pounds then and in a split second he is spinning round and looking for some scrap of the tattered and discarded cloak. He stuffs it into one of his shirt pockets as he fumbles to pull it back over his arms and torso. Some part of him is still fighting through the strangeness of having Elliot so close and so -excitable-. He he smiling up at Elliot now. -And where are we running to? We cannot let those things follow us back to the inn.-

[Waldemar]

Safe was perhaps not the right word for their perch; leaving aside the precariousness of clinging to a branch high up in a tree, the was also the matter of the mill's guardians to consider; while the taller servitors stumped relentlessly across the forest floor in pursuit the smaller ones swarmed upwards, scrabbling up trunks and springing from branch to branch overhead like squirrels.

The advance of the stick men might be outpaced by running, but for how long? Was there any reason to believe they might flag or tire in their pursuit? The thiefling and the fae would have plenty of opportunity to find out.

[Glenn]

"I need something to cover my face. Then we need to get to a public place, expose his dark magic to all of Myrken. Then we can come back with pitchforks!" He looked at Zilliah as they started to move once more. Maybe pitchforks were a bad idea considering his current company. "Or a formal complaint? Something. I don't know! But we need to get out of the wood so we can burn all of these little wooden jerks, at least. If we expose old man Baldy to the world for trying to create a little stick man army to conquer the province, that's even better!"

Fine? They wouldn't flag. Fine! They wouldn't tire? FINE! Elliot Brown would use that for his own ends. And if that wouldn't work he'd just scour them with fire the second they got to some sort of open area. You had to wake up pretty early to get one over on the young rogue, at least before noon!

[Pantha]

If he had time to stop and laugh, he would. It was rather cute how excited Elliot was to have completed this job gone terribly wrong. His fingertips throb with the reminder of splinters and he winces when his smile becomes to wide and his cut cheek threatens to bleed again. The scrap of Elliot's cloak that he had plundered is hastily removed from his shirt pocket and then tucked into his pants pocket instead. The shirt is once again removed while they run. Stick army to conquer the province! Right. Elliot wanted something to cover his face? Well, he gets a shirt thrown right over his head. That ought to shut him up for a minute! “We? WE? You will not tell anyone I was involved in this mess!” He laughs earnestly now and takes off ahead of Elliot in the darkness towards the direction of the inn instead of town.

[Waldemar]

Little subtlety to the march of the brushwood men, no possibility of denying what they were, the unnatural forces that gave motion to legs made of sticks and branches and twine; which was perhaps why, after a time, they halted in their pursuit to stand motionless among the trees, a cordon of scarecrow sentries keeping watch in case the intruders should return.

The smaller figures followed the pair a little further, scampering through the undergrowth, a dry rattling and crackling of twigs keeping pace without drawing too near. Even they gave up the chase before too much longer - or seemed to, at least. Perhaps they merely grew more discreet, discernable only as an occasional scuff amid the bracken and brush; perhaps it was only the sound of woodland wildlife disturbed in its nocturnal rounds.

Whatever the case, nothing followed Elliot and Zilliah out of the treeline when they finally left the forest behind; nor did the dawn find them as it eventually filtered between the trees.