A Winter Night

[Acteon]

And as Altias led the way, Acteon realized that it was official; this band of strangers would wander into unknown caves which housed an unknown number of religious zealots worshipping an evil force known to have massacred hundreds. And what made them so certain they would survive this? Acteon could not see it, nor understand it. Maybe they weren't certain at all. But how could they be? I mean, let’s face it; they were being led into the vipers’ den by a so-called "reformed" member of the Order and a woman wearing a blindfold.

What could possibly go wrong?

Acteon sighed. He had known that it would come to this long before the time had come. It was one of the reasons that he didn’t tie up Venatici. If Acteon died, he didn’t want the horse to be tethered and have to chew through its bindings in order to find food. He wanted her free. But he didn’t have time to think about the mare. The group was advancing toward the caves and he would not wait outside for them; it was not his way.

Acteon moved away from the group and leaned his daikyu against a large rock nearby. He felt that the longbow might be too large for the inside of the caves. Who knew how crammed it would be inside. Pulling his hankyu from his shoulder, he nocked an arrow upon the hemp string. He then walked swiftly back to the group. He tried to be as ready as possible for whatever it was that awaited them.

Acteon was on the heels of Jons when the man fired his crossbow and threw his knife. In fact, Acteon’s bow was drawn and held ready before Jons’s knife had left his hand. But when the masked soldier charged the cultist with his mace, Acteon held fast. Jons blocked his shot and Acteon didn't want to risk killing a member of the party.

However, the same risk did not exist for the other white-robed figure that ran toward the group in effort to reinforce his downed brethren. And so, after taking quick aim, Acteon’s fingers relinquished the drawn string. The taught hemp released a gentle thung! and the loosed arrow launched forth with certain accuracy. The huntsman was used to taking down game as small as squirrels and rabbits on the run with his bow; a fanatic in a bright white robe coming at him was little challenge.

Acteon didn’t wait for the arrow to connect before he plucked another from the quiver at his belt, nocked it, and loosed again. This time he instinctively aimed lower. Anticipating the strike of the first arrow and the fact that the man would most likely crumble as a result of the impact. The goal of the second arrow was to hit the torso of the man again as he fell.

A third arrow was nocked and readied, but this one stayed on the string; Acteon’s gloved hand pulling it tight to a bearded cheek. The huntmaster watched to see if his first target was indeed downed--as Acteon was confident would be the case. He also looked for an opening to take a shot at the individual who was still a very real threat to Jons, Altias, and Lamai. But, as of now, there was naught to be had.

[Cinnabar]

And so it begins. The first rank of doughty heroes (or reckless fools, depending on who you asked) were holding their own against the small handful of cultists encountered. One down with a quarrel in his throat. One charging onto the huntsman's arrows. One still fighting, though outnumbered. And one fled into the tunnels.

It was this last that caught Cinnabar's attention. Aside from the tactical considerations of how things might go if one of the cultists manages to raise a general alarm, there is the fact that he has run, which prompts an insistent desire to chase. A quick glance at those behind him, accompanied by a brief nod and an almost feral grin, and then he is quickly moving close to the wall to edge around the cluster of bodies at the hall's entrance. Swift strides to circle around and past the cultist targeted by Acteon, heading across the hall to where the robed figure had fled into the shadows. His rapier remains sheathed, the silver-haired youth still favouring the main-gauche for now. It whirls in his hand as he crosses the chamber, a flashy trick of the wrist and fingers that seems to amuse him.

He walks with steady strides, taking care to watch his surroundings as he does so; there is haste to his movements, certainly, but this is no precipitate dash into unknown dangers. He sinks into a half-crouch as he moves, almost more prowling than walking, boots treading lightly across the mingled dust and ash of the cavern floor. Senses humming, eyes and ears alert for whatever might lurk in the gloom beyond the torches as he follows the sound of the cultist's running footsteps.

This way.

[Sventon]

Another cultist was racing toward the fight between Jons and the brother; a swift glance back told this cultist that he'd been abandoned by the guard that was, a moment before, close at his heels. Torchlight glanced off of his naked knife, and he never saw it coming; the white-robed zealot never even came close to his destination.

The first of Acteon's speeding arrows slammed into his chest. He stumbled back and as he fell, a second arrow struck through his body, large stains growing on his white robe. He hit the ground only a few paces from the entrance to the living quarters' tunnel and breathed his last, choked breath against the ash-blackened floor of the cave.


Meanwhile, panicked Sventon swiftly emerged from the tunnel again, upon realizing that he was running toward a dead end; he shot a look toward the blur of fast-paced Cinnabar racing toward him as he scampered behind the dais and veered rapidly down the tunnel to the holding cells. The torches were spaced farther apart here, the thin tunnel abruptly opening out with the iron-barred cells on either side.

He knew that there was another exit at the end of this tunnel. What he didn't know was that Sefall was crouched in its midst. Sventon was still quite a distance from that exit, however, as he stumble-ran from Cinnabar, who was closing in behind him with more speed than he reckoned men were meant to have.

[Awry]

Upon entering the space between the cells, perhaps - if Sventon were to crane his head and look towards the shadows of the stalactites, he would see Sefall there - the sound of pounding feet could be heard easily as the cultist had come closer and closer, and the man in black had taken a moment of time to affix himself to the bars of the cell nearest the entrance, and climb silently up to the top, waiting out of view.

If Sventon did see Sefall, then the man was ready to drop like an eagle from his perch of firmly holding onto the iron bars, striking with a kodachi blade at an unprotected head or neck, perhaps even ready to drive it through the torso, cleaving body apart with gravity on his side.

However, if he didn't, then, as Sventon scrambled to the exit, the man in black would fall to the floor, pursue, and as best he could attempt to subdue the man. A blade poised at the neck was magical when it came to the art of extracting information; mostly any man did not like to be reminded of their own mortality with a small cut of flesh at the throat, either.

Meanwhile, in leaps and bounds, the timber wolf was finally coming up to the entrance of the cave, where the merry band of brothers and sisters had made their way inside. Slowly, cautiously, the wolf followed, not seeing any action yet.

[Cinnabar]

As the fleeing cultist doubles back and tries another way out, Cinnabar breaks into a full run. In swift pursuit, leaning forward into a headlong sprint after the figure in flapping robes. He is fast, flitting down the tunnel like a grinning ghost, pale-haired, pale-skinned, pale eyes reflecting the torchlight like pools of silver. Close on the cultist's heels now, almost enough to reach out and touch the hem of that cumbersome robe.

Let him run a little further, let him tire himself out a little more. Let him use up his energy running rather than save it for fighting. Cinnabar has plenty for both.

[Awry]

Ah - look at this. The young, cheery man that had come upon the company as they had gathered together raced right on the tail of the cultist in front of him. Right as they passed from under him, streaking towards the alternative exit from the caverns that Sefall had came in from, the man in black let go of the bars; he landed a few feet behind Cinnabar, the hushed noise of his boots hitting the ground no more than a half-hearted snap of the fingers, undoubtedly concealed by the crashing of their footsteps in their fevered chase.

Sefall hit the ground, and moved quickly and silently back the way they had came, dismissing the tunnel that led to the party (he could tell which easily, by the noise) to take alternate path that led deeper into the caverns. Let Cinnabar handle the man - there wasn't any need to interfere.

Coincidence was funny though, wasn't it? First he had followed them, then he had traveled side-by-side, and then separated - and now, he was scouting ahead.

[Sventon]

Jons' mace slammed into the skull of the cultist, and he flew back like some great, white bird in the voluminous cloth and struck the wall, and then sank to the ground near one of the flickering torches. His last moments were filled with the vision of the fighter's burning eyes: they were premonitions of death in and of themselves.

The two tunnels loomed nearby, their silent throats foreboding. The group still hovered mostly near the entrance, perhaps waiting for more of them to come spilling from the halls like ants to defend their place of gathering, their location of secret meetings.

But no one came.

Cinnabar had left them, gone chasing down the tunnel behind the dais; they might hear the very faint, distancing sound of echoed gasps and racing boots.

The dark, main room with its oppressive scents and high, slant-rocked roof was otherwise muted, but for the sounds of the seekers, of the adventurers, of the hunters who'd come to explore it. It was a certain time each month that the cultists gathered in mass, and the moon wasn't right in the sky for it. If they'd come for information and not a war, perhaps they hadn't been so foolish after all .....

Sventon raced past the bars of the holding cells; he could almost feel the breath of his pursuer. He nearly stumbled when he saw, peripherally, something fall in his wake. Sventon surged frantically toward the opening, his robes billowing about his ankles and wrists; he no longer cared to keep his hood on his head, and it was sheer chance that the thing had not fallen back to reveal his terrified features.

[Magnus]

A hand shot between the bars of the holding cells, trying to sieze Sefall by a piece of clothing, by an arm.

"Hey!" a dry, hoarse voice desperately coughed from the ragged man inside the cell. "Hey, you must get me out of here! You can't leave me in this place."

Whether or not his fierce grip settled on the man, his arm remained outstretched toward him; his hand was palsied, perhaps from the days on end of darkness, perhaps from lack of water.

"Please," he begged him. "Please get me out of here. They're going to kill me."

The man in the cell was dressed in simple, forest-dark clothes; the cell beyond him was spartan, though this was not an incredible sight for a prison. It had no window, being in the depths of a cave. The only light came from the torches farther down the tunnel, and the very sparse moonlight spilling from the exit several yards away.

He was a tall, slender man with pale, dirty hair and dark, pleading eyes. They were pleading with Sefall. His body was pinned up against the bars with fervour.

Please.

[Awry]

The man in black almost hissed when Magnus' hand caught a fist-full of his cloak. It might have not been a dangerous hold, but Kahn Avante himself had often questioned the draping cape. While it was possible that someone could get a good hold on the fabric, it's usefulness in Sefall's mind, of cloaking knives and it's enchantments, outweighed it's negatives.

How the *hell* -- Sefall didn't have any time. Cinnabar and Sventon were still making a lot of noise, and the man in black took the moment to unsheathe one of those wide knives that the waist-length cloak hid, attempting to slam it's blunt side hard and fast at the small, tender space of the wrist, where the curve of Magnus' hand, thumb-side, met the bone of the wrist. Luckily, without much injury except for a bruise, the prisoner would unhand him, and he could be on his way without being sighted - except for Magnus, of course, but that wasn't significant.

The imprisoned weren't his business, after all.

[Cinnabar]

Maybe a draft of fresher, cooler air from up ahead, maybe a change in the echoes of running footsteps, but on some level Cinnabar realises that his quarry is heading for a way out. Very well then. Enough playing with him. The cultist has been allowed to run sufficient to tire him somewhat, so time to end it.

Cinnabar had sheathed his dagger before breaking into full pursuit of the robed figure - doesn't do to tempt fate, after all - leaving both hands free for what follows. As Sventon makes a last desperate rush, he crouches low and springs in a blurred pounce for the man's back, aiming to grab bunched fistfuls of that ever so impractical robe and bowl him off his feet.

[Altias_Bromn]

As the bodies of the cultists, once his friends, dropped one by one, Altias quickly sheathed his sword. An arm would grasp the small body of the healer against him, to protect her from any blows, of friend or foe. She had an unnatural sight, despite her blindness, he would not allow for its failure to sense an arrow or a blade.

The party had scattered, at least a good number of them. Altias knew that six was the number of the guard during the Quiet Time. If things had changed, he could not say how many might still lay in wait.

As footsteps echoed off past the holding cells, he realized that he knew of something he did not realize he had known. There was another exit. A small dank tunnel that ran behind the cells and emptied out very near the ravine. If the Order member who fled had numbered among Prime's chosen few, he or she would also know of this exit.

As Cinnabar ran in that direction, Altias prayed the young man's speed would be enough to intercept the fleeing man. If not...there might be more of the ORder to come. If this one was allowed to send word...they could all be as good as dead before they reached Myrken once more.

Still holding Lamai as close as he could, those strange eyes would search for Ariane, Quincy...the tracker, Acteon.

"Find him...the one who flees. If he escapes this place they will come for us. They will find us, and we will be ambushed on our return."

A look of pure ice spread across the once-governor's features as he added:

"Kill him."

[Acteon]

With the immediate threat resolved, Acteon released the pressure from his bow, but did not loose his arrow. He merely plucked it from the bowstring and dropped it into his quiver with the others. He then crossed the distance to the fallen cultist and pulled his two arrows from the man’s torso. The first came away cleanly, the second returned with only the arrow’s shaft, the arrowhead buried somewhere within the man’s rib cage. Were the cultist an animal, he would have retrieved the arrowhead during the cleaning process. But he didn't have time to cut the man open to retrieve the arrowhead...and would he have done so even if he did have the time?

After wiping the arrows haphazardly on the leg of his woolen trews, he dropped both into his quiver--the good arrow fletching to the top, the bad fletching at the bottom so that he wouldn’t mistakenly grab the headless arrow and fire it at a target.

Then, Altias spoke. “Find him...the one who flees. If he escapes this place they will come for us. They will find us, and we will be ambushed on our return. Kill him.â€

[Sventon]

He could see the thin pool of light on the floor ahead. Sventon reached for it as he ran; he reached for the light, for the exit, his face contorting with an excited flicker of hope, if only because it was so very near. The edges of his hood fluttered with crisp, cold air from the outside.

But that was before Cinnabar set his dagger in its sheath.

That was before Cinnabar finally made his move.

Sventon felt the impact of the leap against his back; great, strong handfuls of white robe hurtle him from his feet. He feels his bare hands and cheek scraping roughly on the stone floor. The Order dagger goes skidding from his hand and his shout echoes in the prison.

He twists his body blindly, hood falling back to reveal a sharp, young face. Sventon swings a strong, lean arm, trying to knock Cinnabar off of him, struggling to escape more than fight.

[Vanidor]

There was stillness outside the cavern complex. It was of the unnatural sort that one could noticed if they paid enough attention to their world around them. Oh, while it was true enough that the party had heard little in the way of night-creatures on their way into the cave, it was also true that now there was a dull and loud silence that marked their total departure from this unhallowed location.

For a quarrel in the night had been answered, and its message have been quite clear. The instruction in the way the bird had warbled in it's darkened cry a meaning. Shadows moved amoungst the trees, some before the main cavern exit. A few more by the entrance Sefall had made to enter in through. The night-bird's call had been certain. Arrows had been knocked and prepared for those who would try to burst out of the cavern.

The only hope, here, was that it would be a cultist that came rushing out first, and not, say, one of the party. Because the arrows that would come (for that was the command given a day prior) would not hesitate if the person coming out was fleeing from something within. You're only hope would be to walk out with purpose, and be steady at that...

----------

Yet within. Jons shook the flanged mace once to free it of some brain-matter and a shard or two of skull. A booted foot kicked out and knocked the body of the dead cultist aside and out of his path. He paused, facing the two tunnels and rubbing absently at his shoulder where the knife had impacted. The tightly woven chain that lay under his bulky coat had saved him a bleeding wound, but not the jarring injury of such a toss. Damn his eyes, but his shoulder would throb for a short while yet.

In anycase, Jons reached to his back and ignored the pain in his shoulder. The buckler was retrieved and gripped, the hold on the mace retightened, and then for the tunnels he moved. Oh, not the one that poor Sventon had charged down. There were others heading in that direction and Jons had that superior look, in his bearing at least, that suggested that he knew no one would escape this time. It was egotistical, but there it was. In any case, they had a cavern to explore, and the chasing of running cultists could be managaed by those who were fleeter of foot than the armed and armoured warrior.

"Let the tracker and the youth run him to ground, we still must do what we came to do." His words, of course, came right ontop of those uttered by Acteon, only Jons did not bother with turning his head to do so, for he was standing at the entrance to that other tunnel and... waiting.

[Rattrap]

The outer stillness was about to be broken in virtually every way, and the question was: though the archers were poised to fire upon anything exiting the cavern, what would their reaction be to the swearing, excessively-armed woman who came stumbling toward the entrance from the surrounding forest?

"There had better be something goddamn fantastic at the end of all this. Else...else...hell, who am I kidding? It's my own damned fault. Stupid me."

Perhaps 'stumbling' wasn't quite the right word; the self-employed bartender was quite sure of her footing, just not of her direction. She had picked up again what she thought were tracks and the cavern ahead more or less confirmed that, but in truth, Athena was entirely surprised she hadn't simply lost herself in the forest for days to come. That was still a likely scenario, but at least now there was hope of returning with the group, assuming they actually did go into the cave.

And assuming she wasn't simply blasted by a hail of arrows, which is another possibility she hasn't the faintest awareness of.