All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[Seth_Bloodmoon]

Seth had held himself back from charging to engage Teron in physical combat. Oh how he wanted to judging by the look of sheer frustratrion marring elven features. However, he knew that if he gave into this want of physical confrontation, he would never heed the call when it came for the confrontation of wills. Twilight Heart was free of its sheath, right hand holding tightly enough to turn his knuckles white.

It grew even harder to hold back as he witnessed Kyra struck by fell magic and blade. Brilliant blue witnessed Glenn taking injury as well. His eyes spied Khalika, an extreme unknown in the midst of this battle, friend or foe... perhaps friend and foe? Valaeli was up on the cliffs and he did not know how well she was faring but she had Ryn with her. He could but hope they were alright. Ariane had charged in to engage the Fiend amongst knights and soldiers, how he wished he could follow.

So the tall elf remained in the middle of the group near Cinnabar, sword ready to dispatch any of Teron's minions that may get close enough. He waited for the moment when the artifact would be brought into play. Angular features were drawn into a grim expression as brilliant blue eyes flashed with barely restrained violence. Distracted by his own dark thoughts, it took Seth a moment or two to realize Patience had spoken to him. His gaze was locked upon Teron's armored form in the distance as he finally spoke, "Glenn and Kyra have been injured... I can't judge how seriously from back here but it cannot be good... Many soldiers are falling to the Fiend's blade and magicks..." a low growl of frustration escaping him, "I should be out there..."

He would have said more but it is time for the battle of wills. Time to crush Teron and hopefully end him on a different field of battle. The tall elf feels that touch of the artifact's magic, gaze still locked upon their havoc wreaking foe. A grim smile takes hold of the corners of his mouth and a flicker of anticipation visits the blue depths of his eyes as he murmurs, "It is time to face him... To end him..." Seconds later and Seth is crumpling to the ground along with Cinnabar.

((Again, my apolgies for not posting more in this part of the whole thing. Real life just doesn't understand the importance of rp, I swear! j/k lol))

[Kait]

"We all should." It is not hard for the squire to share the elf's sentiments, though her attention is for the other end of the battleground, and her thoughts for the fates of her fellow knights. "If this does not work," but it had to; failure here would leave too few behind to defend Myrken not only against the fiend, but whatever other horrors might follow in his wake.

The touch of magic upon her mind is met with a widening of hazel eyes, and even in this hour there is such distrust of all things arcane. No matter her doubts, the young woman is soon slumping where she stood, her body left to the mercy of the battlefield while her mind is set to engage the Ashfiend.

[Kyorin]

((OOC: Catching up with my post since I been behind))

Delayed. The only true word to describe the several moments that left Kyorin behind in the battle. Cobalt hues caught the sight of a small group of undead sneaking around likely to join up in the battle. A decision abruptly made, he quickly broke off from his original destination to pursue the group. He hustled with agile-foot steps, moving his right hand to slide fingers towards one of the hilts at his side. However, his fingers intentionally evaded a particular hilt that seemed more ornately designed in comparison to the others.

His eyes locked upon the targets while he closed the distance in seconds. Porcelain mask with various markings of paint veiled his features, emotions hardening as jumped into battle – each swing of his blade gliding swiftly to exchange blows with various undead. As he continued to change stances in combat, realization took over that there may only be one true way to defeat such things. So much for fighting the old fashion way… He thought to himself for a moment. Immediately, he responded changing the angle of the blade aiming intently to remove one of the heads from the creatures of the unliving.

Observing the creatures warily, noting it seemed hard to predict their movements at times. New battles even for him, never having faced undead in the past like this. Caught off guard momentarily, one swift blow towards his face sent him toppling backwards and rolling away. A fragment of the mask cracked along the right side of his forehead, blood visible. Dazed, as his left hand moved to remove the mask from his face. Thankful that it absorbed most of the blow but the damage done left it a risk now. He moved to place the mask back on the fragile hook at his side.

It’s been years since I’ve experienced pain or a good blow like this. Have I gotten soft, Elina? He questioned in his mind, moving quickly back to his feet. His legs shifting to retake another stance to prepare for continued combat. Once again, he sprang forward towards the mob of undead, moving for a quick exchange of blows but clearly intended that he desired to finish this quickly.

Some time later, the small mob laid on the ground in ruin. Kyorin stood there, panting for air. Least until he realized that he still bled mildly from the early strike. Left hand moving towards the injury to check the severity of it. He sighed in relief, moving to a knee to regain composure. “A new foe and here I am catching my breath…â€

[Carnath-Emory]

Wrist-deep in loose earth and fervent hopes, the swordswoman draws a slow breath and collapses as if slain.

[Sherazade]

The battle within the battle was starting... she felt them start to fall.... knew they were not all togther, this would make protecting them harder... harder but not impossible. Spell of pain was broken off, the energy turned in another direction. "Keep them away Ryn... I can spare no attention to help you" These were the first words she had spoken to the black man at her back, for sometime, and all he did was give a curt nod, as his blade slice through another of teron's minions. Reaching deep within herself, one hand grasping the clan medalion given to her by Synthia, she made a mental reach for seth, once he had joined the others, making him the focal point for what came next.

Threads of power spun out, reached for all those who were fighting the unseen battle. wrapped them in shields , ones strong enough to give defenders time to reach them, the strongest of these around Seth, for unless he fought her his power would give hers the extra boost it needed for this to be truly effective.

Into limbo her mind fell, keeping her motionless, she would be completely defensless without ryns protection. She walked in mist, the borders between both battles.... nothing would be getting through here easily.

Savage, unrelenting and seemingly tireless ryn fought to keep all commers from getting within reach of his mistress, a woman who now resembled nothing more than an ivory statue, drapped in protective cloths.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

He beheld Kyo's approach, his anger burning anew through the mind of a pair of his twisted servants who turned and raced off in the swordsman's direction to slow, maim, rend and slay. Reinforcements must be delayed, he silently commanded. Reinforcements must be slain.

It had not taken long for the force arrayed against him to be halved in its strength, to be quartered in its will to fight, for his massed enemies to be reminded of the folly of their first attack. As Kyra's sword, wielded by the mapmaker, left a searing wound within a shoulder that ached and throbbed with every moment in poor mimicry of a living pulse, the Ashfiend slowly turned his livid gaze upon those warded by sorcerous shields. With Valaeli's pain magic subsiding, vanishing into mist and air as her attention shifted to protecting his primary opponents, he began to approach them. The chains rattled ominously at his side, ruined cloak fluttering as a grim, tamed specter with his silent drawing near.

His empty hand raised as he turned, regarding the woman far above him, calling to mind other, sinister magics. Primal forces gathered at the center of his outward-facing palm, violet sparks of violent promise, sparkling, merging, and darting towards her in purple-veined lightning meant to disrupt her concentration, ruin the spell, and leave his enemies open. With their leaders slain, and his prime antagonists dead, there would be no one left to oppose the burning of Myrken Wood. Purged and silent it would serve to keep his restored betrothed safe from all harm.

There is, however, that nagging pull, that invisible hand crawling up the back of his neck and settling on and burrowing into his skull. With probing fingers it diverts his attention, forcing him inward along with his opponents, into an inward battle of wills waged at the core of his burning memories nestled within the chapel where it had all begun. One by one his enemies fell as if slain, stricken of soul, and his gaze dimmed, his progress hesitating.

That is until, hatred seething and adding agony to the fire already burning within his wounded shoulder, he managed a step towards hie enemies, and another. His eyes beheld the inward battle and seared through it to the outward one as well. While he dueled with Calomel, the elf, and the others, he trudged towards their prone forms, he bid his remaining undead servants to strike, and he began to heft that blade meant to shatter their hopefully disrupted shields and slay them, one by one.

A groan at the strain upon his will blossomed into a low, fell snarl of hungry doom.

[Malaroth]

The Shepherd Knight raced furiously through the ranks that had closed about their undying enemy. Sound replaced sight, despite his height and churning gaze that caught the occasionally skyward-flung soldier who landed amidst the curses and groans of his erstwhile companions. How to pin in place an enemy who could move through that which all possessed, even himself? How to rid the world of any significantly sized shadow?

Then, as he nears the front ranks, his own allies succumb one by one, falling to meet the earth, prostrate in prayer, fervent in their battle of wills cemented with magic. The gentle curvature of his own magically forged blade fits assuringly within his pale hand while the length of his golden hair, veined with silver, tumbles about his shoulders, and the dark tabard dances between armored and booted knees.

There is lightning for the air, for Valaeli - sworn into the knighthood as well - and then the 'Fiend bears down upon the mental combatants, seeking to end it by slaying their mortal frames, and silencing their minds. He lowered his shoulder as he barreled through the weakened, trembling ranks, calling to mind that single, simple spell once more, and reached out, slapping his naked palm against the creature's scorched armor. He felt the sizzling, biting cold lance upon his arm, searing his palm that briefly caressed the countless scars unable to obliterate the undead creature's symbol embossed into the entombing armor: a sword crossed at the hilt by weeping, wilting roses.

At once the armor began to shine with a softly golden light, a tamed and weakened sun, that poured through the armor's crevices and worn, buckling plates - eradicating the shadows about him, bleeding his own down to a puddle far too small to transport anyone even with the shield of his ruined cloak.

Planting his feet, he brought his blade down upon the Ashfiend's already wounded shoulder and felt the armor penetrate, the sickly yield of dead flesh beneath, and heard the monster's muted gasp of deadened pain. Bitten, pale lips pressed firmly together as he raised his own weapon to meet the return blow, a mighty downward swing to break the knight where he stood.

[Vanidor]

A hand rose, voice urging the small company of horsemen to continue upon their path. A head turned, sending his gaze downwards into the battle below. It was chaos down there, closer now as they were upon the downward slope. Eyes swept about the slot, the mouth beneath the mask pulling into a pained grimace once again. "Forward! Forward for Myrken! Corporal, you have command. Do what you can to join the others down below. It is time we parted ways." The scout blinked rapidly, watching the other man a moment as he pulled upon the reigns of his horse.

The Duke wheeled his horse, nudging the beast away from the cliffs edge. It was a good seventy feet, if his eye judged the distance correctly. He wasn't certain. However, he knew it was a shorter distance than from the apex of the cliffs they had been at not too long ago. It should be enough to ensure his survival, though the horse beneath him... He pushed the thought from his mind, then laid a hand down upon the neck of the creature beneath him.

"You have been good to me, my friend. May you find gentle hills beyond the veil, and a fine legged mare to travel them with. Now! Go! Fly like the wind!" His heels kicked into the sides of the horse, the war-trained beast dug hooves into the earth and hurtled forward. It screamed in the manner only a horse could as the duo sped for the cliff edge. Seconds later, they were passing the stunned scout, the man with his mouth agape as the Duke hurtled over the edge.

It wouldn't take long for the horse and rider to make their fall to earth, halfway between that distance the Duke would leap forth from the back of the horse, allowing it to continue on it's path. He himself would hurtle, like the hawk he was called, into the melee below. His destination, by chance or fate, was near to the gypsy and her assailants.

[channe]

With a staggering breath, Agnieszka Kaczmarek comes awake from where she'd fallen; and, seeing the bodies of Ariane, Seth, Patience, bleeding Glenn -- all of them as dead, and the Ashfiend --

-- and Malaroth screaming forward to fight him --
-- and the Duke going over the cliff --

and a screamed NO for all of this, as she throws herself back towards the Ashfiend, near Malaroth. He will not get away, not if Agnieszka has anything to say about it.

[Cinnabar]

The gypsy's elbow thumps off the shield-wielding soldier's mail and the padding beneath, prompting a stumble as the unexpected blow combines with the suddenly-missing impact he had expected. Her kick strikes home, causing one of the other soldiers to stagger back with a pained grunt and a curse while the rest take more cautious stances, their initial assault rebuffed.

A reappraisal, perhaps, as they glower at her from behind readied weapons. Combes, the leader, takes in the situation quickly - the battle raging where the Fiend's looming form can be seen past the heads of his comrades, snarling and lashing out and now radiant with light; the stones and bodies and now horseflesh falling from above; the girl-sorceress who'd been tending to Glenn, now moving to aid fallen Kyra. Priorities, orders, quickly weighed and chosen and then barked directions are given, followed by some wary maneuvering since the woman's acrobatics have put some distance between her and the injured mapmaker; moving to interpose between Quiller and Burnie, keeping the treacherous gypsy what should be a safe distance away.

"Morgens, Aldford, see to him. The rest of you, hold firm."

Two of the soldiers step back as directed, hastily moving to tend to Burnie, to drag him clear of the melee, away from stamping feet and clashing weapons and falling rocks. The rest of them watch Khalika closely, keeping themselves between her and the injured man. They'd seen her lash out at the sorceress as she strove to defend herself from the Fiend, so she's made her allegiances clear enough for them; the ghoul might pose a greater danger overall, but he's distant enough along the pass, locked in battle with the Grand Master, so they're free to pay attention to the woman.

"You side with the Fiend, Myrken's got a quarrel with you."

[Tebrin]

Ariane was not a religious woman - but she would find her prayer answered
this day by a power beyond the bounds of her comprehension. A small
trinket, a gift given her by a... benefactor, you might say, thrums to
life as she makes her fervent, silent wish.

The sorceress' shivering form, her quivering hands grow steady, a faint
tinge of color returns to pallid cheeks. As the young girl stood guard
over her, as Ariane's form crumpled beside her, as an entirely new battle
began, Kyra found her strength restored, found pain banished from her
bloodied body.

And with this renewed vigor, she found the breath to whisper the rune,
found the strength and coordination to deftly trace the necessary arcane
structure against her stomach. The magic flared and blue light spidered
across her clothing to encircle the wound and pull it, miraculously,
closed. But the spell did not just heal - it rejuvenated, and as magical
energy flooded her veins, she grabbed for her staff and pulled herself,
unsteadily, to her feet.

Teron was turning away from her, was making his way unsteadily towards the
sleeping assailants whilst waging that internal struggle. This gave the
sorceress time to recover, time to quickly trace a sigil in the air which
would interrupt Niall's teleportation, gently unravelling the spell
sufficiently to interrupt it without shattering the construct and rattling
its creator.

"Niall... The sleepers. Protect them. Distract the Ashfiend. There is a
spell I must prepare."

This order was issued quietly, but unmistakably. The satchel at her left
shoulder was slung around to rest against her newly-healed stomach, nimble
fingers retrieving the intricately-carved box from within. The burlap sack
tossed to the ground, and with the invaluable chest clutched tightly
within her grasp, fingertips ease around the supple curves of the arcane
words carved into the surface, lips moving to recite, one final time, the
proper order of the sigla, to commit them to memory, to ensure there were
no errors in her construct. She was not casting just yet - simply rehearsing.

She may not get a second chance.

(Edit: Notepad had some weird formatting errors this time around, apologies for that.)

[Glenn]

Either because of his current physical state or because he had been pulled out of the line by Quiller or Niall, Glenn had not fallen unconscious. Of course, to say that he was alert and coherent would be a gross overstatement. He was alive. That was something. He was certainly bleeding out. The chunk of his leg that was missing was not precisely large, but it was certainly necessary.

The agony of it, of losing a part of himself, an actual physical portion of his body, was enough that he had blacked out. Even now as he was being dragged further away from the center of the combat, his eyes only flittered open for a few seconds at a time. Darkness had overtaken him and darkness would continue to overtake him, despite the din of combat coming from the direction of Teron.

[Kyorin]

Kyorin’s eyes locked upon the Ashfiend in the distance, surveying the chaos before him. A promise upheld. Allies fallen, even the few he promised to lend support. For a moment, he felt too late – cursing his own judgement. Although, a new danger arose as he noticed two of the Ashfiend’s warped minions heading towards him. He briefly directed a side-glance at the sword in his hand, hesitation as to things to come. I serve no one. My loyalties are to my friends and my new mission is my own design. Stop fearing the past…

Cursed memories. This sword served many missions for its master and carried the burden of his pain many times. Why did he bring it to this fight? Self-realization came after a moment, remembering the desire to forget and to start a new life. The will to fight is through the spirit, and the sword relies on the spirit to carry out its master’s wishes. A renewing sense came over him, as the enemies came closer towards him. No one will stand in my way of completing my mission. Abruptly, he charged directly towards the undead.

His footsteps seemed lighter and faster, as his pattern changed from a straight-line movement into a zigzag formation in order to try and confuse the pair approaching him; moving faster with the blade in his hand. “I’ve got no time for you!â€

[Carnath-Emory]

None of this is unfamiliar. Not the body's surrender to unconsciousness; not the dreaming-world into which the mind had collapsed. Not the abrupt emergence into wakefulness which follows now. The swordswoman is a regular participant in dreamscapes gone terribly awry.

But all the familiarity in the world can't compensate for these facts: that the sudden din of the battlefield is jarring upon the senses; that the waking mind requires precious moments to realise that bodies are engaged in armed combat very nearby. That the reflexes, not nearly so sluggish, have her body twisting away from heavy hooves before the mind has quite realised their dangerous proximity.

How many bodies have perished beneath Hrimfax's hooves? Not her; not today. There are better things ahead, crueler things ahead.

There is a Knight whose armour shines like a beacon.

She is to her feet upon sighting it. A moment is spared to guide Hrimfax away from her with a hand to the back of his head. Another is spent in some gasping glimpse of the Crimson Hawk himself, plummeting into the midst of bloodshed, and there'd be some shout of joy for that sight did her throat allow it, were the moment less urgent. But it is that sparkling sunburst which holds her eyes now, and she is relentless in her pursuit, an ironclad juggernaut that's left its sword behind in the dirt, paired katars seized in its stead. There are bodies between she and her intent, and this armoured thing shoves them aside -- with shoulders, with plated elbows, with the sheer weight of her momentum. There are furrows traversed, fallen forms leapt --

And then she is upon them. There is no doubting that the woman is practised with these narrow, brutal weapons, but the intensity with which she applies them to the Ashfiend now is nothing short of superhuman, because that is precisely what Kyra's magicking has made of her. It is a flurry of twisting motion that has afflicted him from behind, each spin of her body lending terrible force to the vicious blades; it is a small storm of motion from which these brutal blows emerge again, again, again, wielded by a woman who knows the gaps of this armour very well indeed.

"Y ddihenydd," she breathes at some point in the midst of this.

The end.

[Kait]

The lifting of tawny lashes is a tedious thing that stretches into time beyond limit before it is done. Cold light bathes the world, smothers the lingering sounds of fighting to a buzz in the back of her mind as the squire slowly rights herself. She is a passive thing who rakes the earth with an absent swipe of slender fingers, hazel eyes trailing after those who rush past with idle curiosity. Eventually the squire shifts again, sitting evolves to standing if only because the thought of being trampled is an unpleasant one.

There is a knight, her knight, and that vile, deadly creature locked in what may be the final moments of battle. For all the worrying and wanting, for all the caring, it is a languid pace that draws the young woman near to witness the swordswoman's savage dance. It is to be such a long awaited victory, an answer to prayers, and a relief for Myrken and the squire's own grief; near vacant are those eyes that watch, and fingers do not even twitch in longing for the sword that hangs forgotten at her side.