A Winter Night

[Jirai]

There was a cautious, silent acknowledgement for the touch of Lamai's mind - her own was guarded as well. Oh-so silent. The girl watched, and listened.

[Cinnabar]

Cinnabar nods thoughtfully at Agnie's appraisal of the situation, which sounds reasonable enough. Quincy's mute plea for silence is answered with raised brows and a shrug, though he obligingly remains quiet for now.

They did have a plan, right? That had been most of the reason why he'd asked, after all, as he'd assumed that the group had already worked out their tactics before he'd caught up with them in the clearing.

Right?

[Quincy]

Cinnabar's worry was more than a valid one, since the only plan that Quincy had in mind was Don't Die. The blind healer at the cave waved to them in silence, and she was relieved. It looked like there was nothing to worry about after all.

The girl exchanged a glance with Ariane, then looked to Jons with a slight nod in answer to his question: someone had to go first, and there was no reason to turn down a skilled volunteer. The moon wasn't right in the sky for the mass gathering of cultists, and there was no evidence of it, but they had to practice at least some caution.

Jons could go first, and the ones who wanted to see the inside of these caves could follow. Quincy was determined to get to the root of things plaguing her sister, so there was no question in her mind. She knew where she needed to be.

When Jons started toward the caves, the slight girl would move from the brush after him ..

[Acteon]

A plan. His kingdom for a plan. But, of course, the huntmaster had no kingdom. And the group? Well, they had no plan.

In fact, that was not completely true. Acteon had come to the realization that they actually had two plans; one was Quincy’s “don’t dieâ€

[Minty]

Folly, indeed. It is why Ignas does not volunteer to go first, either. This is why he has played rearguard to Acteon's advance. But that left the flanks vulnerable. This was more than just an observation of their marching formation: It was the general state of this 'plan'. There were too many holes. Not enough planning, not enough thinking. Ignas had the feeling that somebody was going to die tonight.

But...at least they had a contact. And if they were lucky, this contact would be -trustworthy-. If they were luckier, somebody would slit this woman's throat and hide her in a bush so she was incapable of betraying them.

Jons moves towards the caves. Ignas has no problem with this. He doesn't know the man, but...he can hope that he knows what he's doing. And then...Quincy does, too. She is a hothead. She is loud. She's got a goddamned clanking helmet, too. Let's pray that she's also got a measure of calm and stealth in her that Ignas had simply -failed- to notice.

At least, by this point...Ignas knew who to trust and put his back to, who he'd need to protect, and who was expendable. All this was worst-case scenario information, though. A good plan meant he wouldn't have to be utilized. And if he was utilized, he prayed God showed the kindness necessary to make sure Ignas was well-equipped to do what he had to do. He was fulfilling his duties, and he hoped, that in the minds of everyone else here, they were doing the necessary thinking and planning necessary to their roles...if they'd figured out a useful role.

[Altias_Bromn]

"No. I shall lead."

Altias stepped around Jons, a nod of thanks for his offer, but he would not be the first to face those who Altias had once known so well. The faces within were to be people he knew. Frankly, there might be faces that all of them knew, depending on who had drawn the watch. Still, Altias might have a chance to enter unhindered, despite his radical physical changes. They might still know him as Brother Okulari, The Chosen One. It was worth a try.

As he approached the cave mouth, a slender hand would move to rest on Lamai's shoulder. Nothing was spoken, there was no need. She could see into his mind as if it were her own. It had been so for many years now. They shared a bond, despite all that had come and gone since the time it was formed. He knew her as friend, and that she had no part in this. There was a glance to the others who followed, a simple nod. Yes, this was indeed Lamai, and she could be trusted.

Altias would reach for her small hand, to bring her back within the place that had been a private hell for them both, and a few others in their present number. If she grasped it, as he Believed she would, he would continue into the tunnel. Lamai's hand in one hand, his other resting on the sword hilt that he was fair certain he would be needing once they reached the Main Hall.

Within, the tunnel was narrow, so narrow that someone any bigger than the Brute Simon would have a terrible time indeed entering this place. The walls were damp with water that seeped in from above, despite the Cleansing Fire that had torn through this place some time ago. There was room for persons of average build to walk single file, and as they neared the Main Hall, most would be forced to stoop until just before the end of the tunnel.

The scent inside the tunnel was one of soot and old blood. Charcoal and copper. It was dank, and stiffling, despite the cool temperature. The scent of the tunnel was prevasive enough that those of a sensitive nature could taste the air as much as smell it.

As the tunnel opened back up to well over six feet in height, they were less than twenty paces from the Main Hall. Altias could see the torches burning, and the shadows of the two guards that waited beyond. Murmured voices spoke of things he could not hear, most likely things of a very mundane nature. Guard duty was a dull draw. There had been nothing horrid to speak of since...the Fire.

The Shamshir was drawn free with an almost tender touch. Near silent, but certainly Lamai would hear it, standing so close. A press of his hand to her own, before he would let go, to prepare to dispatch those who waited.

[Carnath-Emory]

The hunt is on -- and the sellsword has become a shadow of other men.

Jons has sent a soft cry up into the sky, and in time it will summon a kindless variant of hell. That he's given a moment's guidance to Agnieszka has quieted the swordswoman's lingering concern; so too that young Rhaena cleaves closely to Kaczmarek's side, for the girls balance each other well, each one tempering the other's excesses. It is good to have Cinnabar in this cluster of bodies, for he carries with him a dependable spirit and his tutor's guidance -- but she hasn't the answers that he requests of them; her understanding of this chessboard game of strategies is a novice's yet. Why, just witness the fact that she's nodded her agreement to Jon's proposal, only to fall still a moment after, as Altias steps so neatly past them all.

Cinnabar, do not request that a pawn arrange your pieces.

This one is a shadow of other men, excepting that where ordinarily she'd have moved at Bromn's shoulder, that place is this evening allotted to the capable hands of Jons and small Lamai. That dark angel will prove the guide for this half-planned expedition, and Ariane in the meantime is backstepping through the press of bodies to find Acteon's side. A moment's search has found her Ignias as well, whose posture betrays his intention; Demonsbane's as direct a creature as Ariane herself, and sometimes as easily read. Good enough: she shall be the girl-shaped weapon in the midst of them, and sweep a hand forward, to indicate that Agnieszka and the Olwak girl should preceed them.

[channe]

A silent nod to Ariane. She steps forward as directed; it is the bones of a decent plan, this, although some fear gurgles in her stomach. She turns to Rhaena, here -- and in whispers, grabs her friend's arm.

"This is more serious'n I thought, Rhae. You good wi' it? You might hafta -- do things. We can stop now, but not later."

Ignas, you are given an appraising and approving look; Acteon, the girl in black does not know you, but you, too, are approved. There are limits to books, she believes -- books, and training-yards, and opponents who will stop before truly hurting her. Aeryn may have her head for this, but, in the end, Agnieszka Kaczmarek needs to know how good she really is.

Before the lives of her family ride on it.

[Sventon]

The cave was filled with the subtle noise of the elements: the torches, the water crawling down the walls. The tunnels were rough, natural archways, and the main hall had a vaulting stone roof; the air that they breathed, aside from the choking scents that lingered, had a touch of the chill - for the winter had done everything it could to relieve the place of smothering heat.

The two guards ahead of the group emerging from the tunnel stood in simple, white-robed harmony; the torches made their shadows contract and waver on the high walls. They'd grown used to a silence within the noise. This was disturbed when they were not alone anymore.

The heavy mouths of white cloth looked toward the tunnel. Likeminded hands went to their Order daggers, both of them identical, traditional, and sharp.

"The Chosen One," one cultist whispered harshly in surprise.

"Brother Okulari?" the other echoed him, and each hesitated at their posts.

But there were others hovering around Altias Bromn, and the shadow of them seemed to grow in the throat of the opening tunnel: they were gathering behind the man. They could see enough to tell that these were not the covered faces of their brothers and sisters.

"What is this?"

Their knives flashed into view and the two of them advanced with a whisper of white hems on the stone floor.

[Cinnabar]

No precise plan articulated as such, though everyone seems to be of a mind to enter the tunnels. Cinnabar accepts this with a shrug, grinning encouragingly to Quincy, to Ariane, to Agnie and Lamai and those others he recognises. Both confident and trusting in this haphazard band of companions. He falls into step with them to file into the tunnel; not at the front, not at the back. The cave's mingled stench causes him to wrinkle his nose, even though he lifts his head slightly to scent the air as he does so. Damp ash, cold stone and old blood. An interesting mix.

As they press further into the depths the echoes and air movements change fractionally, and he notes the warm, flickering light of torch flames up ahead. A larger chamber, it would appear. There is also the sussuration of quiet noises - dripping water, crackling flame, and... hushed voices. Not unnoticed, then. He glances back briefly, one hand raised to caution those behind against pressing too close - in this narrow tunnel their numbers work against them - while the other drops to his belt to gently draw his dagger. Too cramped for the rapier; up-close work with a short blade will do better. He grins in the shadow cast by those ahead of him, grey eyes glittering.

[Vanidor]

Altias, brave-brave Altias. You have earned yourself a mark, small as it is, in Jons' book. Another to go besides the brave speeches you once made before dark shadow yanked you from the bright hearth-side of the Governorship. Before, it was said, death claimed you for Her own and made you sit at Her right hand. The fact that you bade Lamai to follow also made another mark. If Jons had this proverbial book with him at this moment, then it would be a larger one than the first. Yes, Lamai was a friend. She, who had lost her eyes so that Myrken could see.

Yet in any case, Altias was skirting around him and bravely marching forth. Jons simply rolled back his shoulders to allow his riding cloak to fall free of his arms. As the passage through the narrow cleft of a tunnel was done, he quietly loaded the crossbow in his hand. A slender dart with a wickedly bent head. Try to take this out of your skin, and more muscle and sinew would pull free than you had lost in the first place! Loaded, and with the other hand he drew the slender dagger from it's sheath on his hip. Slowly forwards. Altias and Lamai had a shadow that oozed violence.

Yes. That was something that you could smell, wasn't it? The charge of it. The onrush of adrenaline as a man prepared himself to bloody his hands? It would mingle, if one could imagine it, with the stench of the age-old Fires that had Purged this unholy place. Lamai. Pray that the Crusader was not needed, elsewise this place would once again become a charnel pit of Hél.

Here now. Altias had drawn his blade and stepped fully into the light. A pause, Jons crouched in the narrow entranceway (and surely blocking the path of those directly behind) and took aim as the two guards seemed to quake for the space of a breath.

"The Chosen One?" Said in a breathy hush "Brother Okulari?" Whispered the next in alarmed surprise. Then true alarm, as Jons himself would step into the light. Perhaps it was his upraised crossbow that would truly set them to move fowards, their knives coming forwards.

They wouldn't, of course, get too much further than a pace or three away from their posts. For the light crossbow in Jons' hand made its quiet snapping, and the bolt would flick out and over Altias' shoulder like an angry bee. A spatter of blood would shower as the bolt took the foremost guard in the throat and propelled him backwards. A spare moment later another whistle of metal would spin past Altias, this time in the space between himself and Lamai. The knife hurtled, this one aimed for the centre of the second cultists' chest.

Jons was prepared for it to miss, or to not do the intended job of outrightly slaying that second guard. For after doing these two acts he dropped the crossbow, catching it with the top of his boot to minimized the clatter of it hitting the ground, and freed the mace from it's place on his left hip. If the man wasn't down, he'd find Jons propelling himself past Altias to attempt the take down. If he was lucky, the last thing the guard see would be the burning hatred behind Jons' eyes. If not, then it'd be the flanged mace that was aimed for the side of his or her head...

[[OOC Note: The slaughtering of cultists approved by management ]]

[Sventon]

Jons' crossbow flashed into sight as the two cultists swiftly advanced, and a single, sharply-aimed bolt raped the space between the weapon and the fastest, and closest of the two. It slammed into his throat, blood splattering, and he fell to the stone floor with a choked sound of death.

The other white-robed figure let out a cry and caught up his fellow guard's scattered knife in his free hand. It was this ducked movement that had Jons' knife whipping over his head. His boots slipped on the blood quickly spreading around the warm corpse.

The blood-speckled robe threw himself from the path of the swinging mace and hurled the knife at him, leaving the cultist armed with only one.

There was a shuffling sound around the curving wall and two more of them appeared, knives in hand. One of them dashed toward the invaders.

The other one hesitated, the shadow of a face clearly staring at the dead cultist near the dais. It was Sventon that turned and ran from the main hall, clutching the edge of his hood so that it would not fall back from his head. He whipped past the torches and fled into hiding somewhere amidst the empty living quarters.

[Jirai]

Shoulders straightened, the veiled girl looking steadily at her friend. "I can do it," she said. "I've done... before. Will if I have to." This last was said forcefully, with an agression uncommon from the mild-mannered girl. Shaking her arm free of Agnieszka's grasp, she too stepped forward.

[Magnus]

Her eyes.

They were the melancholy eyes of a princess.

Her hair.

She ran the comb through waving wheat one hundred times a night. How long would it take to count every precious strand?

Her lips.

They trembled, and you hoped that she would smile this time. Every falling star, I wished for her smile.

Her voice.

"Look at me. Look in my eyes," she said, trying to anchor me, trying to save me. My chest and throat ached with sickness at the beauty of her. Her hands moved with the grace of small, white birds until she held my face. "Come away with me."

Her eyes.

She begged me with her eyes to stop. I had confessed everything to her while holding her in my arms, breathing the excitement of Belief against her ear. I was confused at first by her eyes. She did not see what I wanted her to see. I could feel the heartfelt flutter of her doubt as though it were my own, for only an instant. In that instant of tender blasphemy, hers and mine, the rage took me.

Her hair.

I crushed it in my fist and pulled her close in a way that hurt. When I looked down at my mewling beauty, I saw how the gold tendrils of her hair swirled across her face and throat. Her small throat spasmed with terror as I gripped it. I had never in my life held anything so frail. I was overwhelmed by the weakness of her. The weakness of her body, the weakness of her faith. She was so beautiful...

Her lips.

They parted silently as I choked the breath from her. I was so much a beast right then that I could not feel my own heart breaking. I squeezed her with all that I had; I never wanted to let go of her. So I didn't. I held her tight in my hands and when she fell, I went to my knees with her. She scored my wrists and hands with her nails, trying to breathe again. Her lips were parted with sorrowful hope for that single breath that I never gave her. I was full of rage, but at the same time, I'd never felt so in control of everything. I took control of her life.

Her voice.

Her voice was lost. Her voice was lost because I destroyed it; she went limp and her sad eyes were glazed over. Later on I would think about how her dying eyes were drowned in tears. I would think about the sweetness of her voice.

She was so beautiful, so perfect, and I did what any sane man would do.

I killed that bitch.

[Awry]

Amazing what people would wrongly attribute to you when you had a prestigious title, for it was not exactly Sefall's eyes that had found out the small entrance, but rather Smoke's damp black nose. Even now the timber wolf lay on her side, bored of these twenty minutes of immobilization, but being careful not to make any of her customary grunts of content.

Stillness - the faint scratching of what sounded like parchment on stone. Sefall waited, waited, waited - and then, finally, the man flipped to his belly, and, as quietly and cautiously as possible, slowly drew the dense foliage across the knothole aside. Peering in, keen blue eyes caught the dull glint of poorly-wrought iron in the filtered moonlight. A moment of observation - And then the Hand pulls back slightly to pat the timber wolf on the head. The beast lets out a reluctant grumph, some silent conversation passing between the two of them; she then turns around and starts loping away, towards the other entrance.

Sefall watched her go with a small smile hidden under the weirdly-placed perforations of the mask. He unlatched the peace-straps around his kodachi blades; double-checked the wide knives hidden under his waist-length cloak, fastened to his upper arm by thick bands of leather, hilts hand-wards; and finally made sure that his finely-balanced throwing knives slid out of their bandoliers easily, which were concealed neatly under his long gloves, only an inch of of their handles sticking out from under the leather.

With only a whisper heralding his dive and impact, Sefall landed firmly on the eroded stone of the holding cells area, low to the ground and moving forward in a skulking crouch with his left hand ready thumb a kodachi out of it's sheath for a rapid draw, his seal of office still working it's blurring enchantments on the edges of his figure.