06.27.3013: Battle Niveus
Summary: War is waged against the Hostile intruders on Niveus.
Date: 27 June 2013
Related: None
Hostiles Anabethe Brienne Cynan Devon Erik Flint Nitrim Percival Ronan Tiriel Una Victor 

Room Name
The description can be found in the log.
27 June 3013


The wind is strong today, with snow being kicked into the air creating both drifts, and a rather stunning display as the light reflects off the crystals of ice. The group of nobles find themselves at one of the command centers, and casualty collection points for the front lines, rear of the main body, but still distant. It is a collection of heated and pressurized domes set in the shelter of a small cliff, and is the first stop on the tour of the lines for this group of nobles and what enterouge they may have present.


Given the opportunity to inspecting the outpost of another House and military unit that is actively fighting the Hostiles is something Sir Erik Cindravale does not pass up, a good opportunity to not only share tactics and experiences with other soldiers but to also gather ideas that could possibly be integrated into his own lines. His armor's AI has already set his camoflauge to match the background of this particular location, mostly white. For now, his helm is tucked under his arm as the tour continues.

The former heir of Grantham is here, with a contingent of Legion of Ash. Flint stands forboding in a suit of Aggressor armor, coupled with an equally large two-handed bar marce. Right now, he's pysching up his men, shouting challenges and dares and then getting a 'AU-WOO!' from the Legion soldiers in unison. Then the entire group of them goes into some kind of war chant. There's no exact words, more like rythmic shouting and growling that has it's reverberation to it.

It's funny how similar, in some ways, this frozen wasteland is to the desert that Cynan calls home. Apart from the cold - and /oh/ is it so much colder than Inculta - he seems almost comfortable out here. Granted, his armor looks anything but comfortable: Sleek steel plates cover most of his body, giving way to the thin, reflective material of his gloves and boots. The metal is etched to a rough finish, almost stone-like in appearance, and today it's pale white, the better to blend in with the environment. He has his helmet on, but the visor is flipped up and his pale blue eyes stare straight ahead.

Victor is cozy and warm inside his climate-controlled armor, but that doesn't stop him from shivering at the icy blue vistas — what can be seen through the blowing snow. "This is worse than the fucking Black Wastes during the windy season. At least then it's warm." At least he keeps that comment just to a private channel between himself, Anabethe, and Nitrim. From the exterior, his gray and orange armor is stolid, relatively unmoving at Anabethe's left side. He looks up at the shout from outside, tilting his head to one side, then shaking it silently.

Lady Una leads the way into the command center, her demeanor and motions businesslike and to the point. Her white armored uniform, for the moment, is wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. She watches the others silently, letting them take up their places and look around as they wish.

Tiriel is standing off to one side and is looking out at the snow filled grounds. She has her helm under her arm and she's watching as the troops psyche themselves up. A bit of a grin fills her face, feral and grim. As Victor speaks she sounds off, "You should see it in the winter." And gives a bit of a laugh. Her armor is white, matching the terrain with a thick strip of blue ribbon tied around one elbow and floating in the wind.

Ice is not Anabethe's natural habitat. So as they've toured the area, she's taken care to experiment a bit with her armor and her steps, checking to see how the experience has changed. She almost ended up on her ass at least once, but managed not to completely embarrass herself. Yet. Now, she stays mostly with the Granthams and the small contingent of Drakes that came with her, hands clasped in front of herself as she pays close attention to their hosts.

Although a naval man by trade, the Lord Larent is also in attendance, leading the troops he's promised to House Iah, a small contingent of infantry as well as a greater portion of archers, Larent's main contribution to the effort. The archers are naturally ranged in the reserve, and Percival is with them, although while the force remains at the command point, he takes the same opportunity as a few others to survey the post and the intelligence available to the command staff.

Wrapped in his heavy coat, plated inserts for armor, and his black gloves, Nitrim's breath is a thick, gray fog as it blows through the red scarf wrapped around his face. Gloved fingers wrapping around the pommel of his longsword, he generates a ball of heat before him to keep himself warm in the freezing temperatures. Close to the Grantham camp, he eyes their rather Sparoi-like war chant with curiosity, noddng deeply towards Sir Flint. The Khourni lordling's eyes dance with laughter at the private chatter through his earpiece, and in response, he jabs his elbow against Victor's armor-jacketed forearm. "Think of it this way, Victor. If this one kills us, they'll be able to get us back to the Crescent for funeral nice and preserved?" He smirks. "There's Anabethe. Let's go over to the Ash Legion."

Ronan Iah walks just behind his sister Lady Una. The freshly minted knight is wearing silvered armor etched with snowflakes. A heavy cloak made from the pelt of an ice bear hangs from his shoulders. His helm tucked in the crook of his elbow. He walks with all the confidence and ego that one might expect from a Cindravale knight.

Usually, Brienne avoids leaving her little section the Arboren call home, yet with the continued threat of the Hostiles, she has come out of her forest to assist where she could. Steeling herself against the thought of leaving her home unprotected by her, she is with the others who thought to do the same. Her armor glistens like her surroundings, almost like a chameleon, Her chosen weapon in her hand, her helm already on her hand, but with the visor up.

Tiriel is standing off to one side and is looking out at the snow filled grounds. She has her helm under her arm and she's watching as the troops psyche themselves up. A bit of a grin fills her face, feral and grim. As a nearby person gripes, "You should see it in the winter." And gives a bit of a laugh. Her armor is white, matching the terrain with a thick strip of blue ribbon tied around one elbow and floating in the wind.

Lady Sergeant Devon Grantham is not all that far away from the Khournas, middling somewhere between them and the Ash Knights. She casts a glance toward Nitrim as he speaks, and then toward the Young Lady Khournas. She seems quiet, perhaps a touch demure for now. Her obsidian-colored helmet is already in place, obscuring her features behind the dense and heavily tinted visor. She bears no weapon on belt or back, and a band around the upper arm of her left limb bears the vibrant red holographic cross of a medic.

Victor snorts at Nitrim's words, looking down at the elbow and feinting an armored response toward his cousin's ribs. Switching back to the speakers built into the jaw of his skull-masked helmet, he responds to the local's words, "This is summer? Fuck me… it's cold as the Crone's tits." He nods upward to Nitrim's suggestion that they go play with the Ash Legion, "I'll stay here and make nice with the locals." If they could see his face, they would see the broad, toothy grin, as is, those nearby can probably hear the expression in his voice.

The chanting and shouting of what appears to be a rah-rah session by the troopers with their leader catches the Cindravale's attention and the young knight can't help but smirk in amusement as he watches on. Then his eyes looks over the other nobles present, taking note of the House markings if there are any and recognizing perhaps a couple of them. When Erik's gaze finds Brienne, he attention is focused on the Arboren knight for a long moment, recognizing the knight who squired with his House for years.

"Guh." One of the two Dalton men-at-arms marching at Cynan's side staggers a bit as his foot sinks into a snowdrift - a little glare from the Knight, and he picks up the pace to get back in step. "Did we /have/ to come all the way out here to play in the snow?" That's muttered under the man's breath, and it seems that his commander either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

Indeed, Cynan seems to have a bit of a purpose in his march; he moves ever-so-slightly faster in the general direction of the two Khourni as they make their way toward the Grantham camp. In a few moments, he's just a little ways away from Nitrim, who he greets with a little nod and a single raised hand. The men-at-arms, misinterpreting the gesture, stop dead in their tracks and again find themselves running to catch up.


Things remain relatively calm, though given the seperation from the battle lines, and the wind, it could be suprising if anyone were to hear any actual combat. So it's probably a bit suprising when a suprised looking soldier steps out of the command tent, a anxious look on his face as he scans around the camp briefly before rushing towards Lady Una, "Young Lady Iah!! Your mother's unit has been engaged a quarter mile east. They're in dire need of reinforcements and this is the closest camp!"


"Alright, Victor, you know where I'll be. We'll have to get some of their ale on the way out, yeah?" As he approaches the Grantham camp, Nitrim casts his gaze over the assembled Ash Legion. His milky, white eyes scan over them as his aura simmers into the vision of a firey, red serpent swimming around his body like a fish in a tank. Warmed by his Hermetic magics, his eyes stop on Devon, who he gives a quiet nod to before coming to stand alongside his sister, Anabethe. He adjusts his cowl over his head and returns Lord Cynan's wave. "I'm being told that this is summer." He murmurs to Anabethe, pressing his fist to his chest in a salute to Sir Flint.

Things remain relatively calm, though given the seperation from the battle lines, and the wind, it could be suprising if anyone were to hear any actual combat. So it's probably a bit suprising when a suprised looking soldier steps out of the command tent, a anxious look on his face as he scans around the camp briefly before rushing towards Lady Una, "Young Lady Iah!! Your mother's unit has been engaged a quarter mile east. They're in dire need of reinforcements and this is the closest camp!"

"Keep us from sweating too much while we work out here, Vic," Anabethe grins to the Drake, tipping her chin upward behind her helm in a nod to Nitrim. Her own crimson defender armor with gold accents certainly stands out against the frosty landscape. "I get the feeling the difference between winter and summer here is kind of like the difference between winter and summer back home," she murmurs to Nitrim, amused, before the messenger arrives.

When the soldier departs from the command tent to intercept the Lady who appears to be in charge of the camp, Erik's gaze shifts from the Arboren Knight to the messenger who delivers a rather crucial update if his ears picked up the words correctly. Sounds like trouble, Hostile trouble.

"This is summer, yes." Una responds to the room at large, though her attention is on her communicator. Her head snapps up when the soldier arrives. A brief nod is his only responce, before she looks first to Tiriel and then to the others. "Right. Lets go." A gesture to the soldier, when everyone is ready, suggests that he lead the way.

Tiriel moves away from her vantage point and steps to lean down and speak to a man of her troops. She nods to them and shrugs as she looks off at the the contained mass. Another nod and she rises up and moves over to stand nearby Una. "Seems things are all right. Watching people shiver always makes me smile." She says and turns to look about. "It is nice to have this sort of help." She speaks and reaches up to place a hand on her wife's shoulder. As the man speaks to her wife, her whole demeanor changes and she announces to all. "Well. It seems you are all here at the right time." A quick look to her wife before she steps over to a corner and pulls a rather large and ornate axe to her side. "Shall we?" As her helm then slams down on her head with a clank of metal and a hum as it seals.

Flint's armor is nothing extravagant: paint flat black with bright red lines of red that outline the armors contours, like little rivers of magma. He's content to let them carry on for a moment longer, the knight himself taking a moment to take a knee and bow his head, appearing like he's doing some kind of praying from what it looks like. "Honor to you, brothers and sisters, to the ones that have come before. Glory we give you to you today and the battlefield. May your deeds of the past give us strength to persevere. Honor to you, Crone, through all ends are only the beginning. I await to see you in the halls of the great beyond and into the next life." Standing back up, he offers the two nearby Khourni, that being Nitrim and Anabethe a casual wave. "Hoping you two would show up."

Since there is no general announcement of what is going on, it takes a bit before the Larent seem to know what is happening. Troops start moving, and this is obvious enough, which prompts Percival to speak within his helmet. Of course, the Defender suit is set up with a full electronics suite, and his words are trasmitted across whatever command channels have been designated. "What is the situation?"

Catching sight of the Cindravale, Brienne offers a nod at the familiar face, but her attention is quickly drawn to the soldier, hearing the message, she stiffens, looking towards the area indicated. Lips thin and she nods to Erik. "Sounds like trouble."

Victor nods to Nitrim, responding, "Wherever there are girls." It's a teasing statement, and there's absolutely no judgment there. After all, that's the best place to be. He starts over toward where Tiriel and Una are standing, going to 'make nice with the locals,' but is stopped by the sudden appearance of the worried soldier. His hand immediately drops down to the haft of his axe, and he murmurs to his suit AI, "Vera, upper right quadrant, area map, 25% bleed. Relative location this camp and Lady Iah." Color blossoms inside his helmet as the holoprojector inside his helmet does as he requests. and once more he speaks out loud, "You'll have to see Khourni summer some time. But for now, it sounds like there's something a bit more pressing." The helmet speakers strip out a good deal of the life from an already-gravelly voice, leaving it sounding like a bass rockslide.

"May They Guide Us," Devon says almost under her breath at the end of Flint's prayer. She glances toward the others as they gather around the small cluster of Grantham shelters, though her attention lingers on the Khourni and Orelleans only for a heartbeat before she hears the frantic call. She immediately nods her head, turning in the deep and crusty cover of white to file up with the rest of the mingled armies. She is taking stock within her helmet, information scrolling past the interior visor. As she scans over those prepare to move, her armor's AI starts scanning their biometrics and marking their outlines so that she may recognize them more easily when the chaos starts.

"Wouldn't miss it for the death of me, Sir Flint." Nitrim's words are a hazy fog, rushed through the heavy scarf around his face. The cowl left to hang above his head gives him the definite, Hermetic lookm complete with rustic designs on his long, heavy coat. He lowers his voice, eyes shifting towards the messenger. "I've been looking forward to taking the field next to the Legion and the Drakes for weeks…" And it appears that the time has come. With so many armed and prepared for battle, he lowers the monocle from his earpiece over his eye to read the combat data flowing in. "Here we go. It's starting."

Before there was a bit of mirth in the eyes of the young Iah Knight, but as he hears the soldier's report, Ronan becomes completely sober. Even before his sister gave any beginning of an order, he was already in motion. He hisses under his breath, "I should have been there… " as he slides his helm on. He stops, reminding himself that his sister is in charge, as he turns waits for Una and Tiriel.

"Trouble indeed, Sir Brienne. It has been a while, hasn't it, perhaps our gracious hosts would allow to thank them for the tour they had given us up till now with our capable service as knights. Shall we?" Erik asks with a nod of his head at Brienne before he raises the helm that was under his arm, moving to slip it securely over his head and letting his armor fully seal with the new protective attachment. It appears that the Cindravale is more than willing to help with the fight that they will most likely be reinforcing, not one to shy away from an engagement with the Hostiles.

Whatever greeting Cynan had planned for Nitrim is swiftly forgotten when the messenger bursts out of the command tent. "No," he mutters to one of the men at his side. "/This/, gentlemen, is why we came here." A hand goes up to the side of Cynan's helmet and taps a button, and silently the visor slides down over his face. In moments, his field of view is filled with a full terrain map of the area east of the map. "May the Light give us strength," he says, just loud enough to be heard by the two Daltons at his sides and, perhaps, Nitrim and the other nobles nearby.

"Mark friendlies," Anabethe instructs her AI. "Standard setting, compensate for glare, mark weak footing." She tightens her grip on her halberd, watching the natives to decide where to settle her people. "Drakes, take right flank until we reach the field," she orders across the Khourni channel. "Shields at the ready. Nobody hares off alone for glory, we're here to support."

There's no visible smile behind the helmet that doesn't appear to have any solid contours or marks of eyelets, appearing like one large sheen surface. But Flint nods at Nitrim. "Spoken like a real warrior. We'll make you a knight yet. That's if you survive, so don't go and get yourself, killed early, eh?" the tone of his voice is amused and happy, as if he was waiting to enter an amusement park. Turning aside, he glances at Devon. "I'm glad you came, Devon. It wouldn't feel right without my favorite niece. Crone watch over you, and we'll see you on the other side." Looking over the Legion of Ash, he nods at the group of soldiers. "LEEE-GION! Left flank opposite the Drakes! Ready the shieldwall. Make your prayers to the Crone and ready to wet your blades! This snow needs a new shade of red!"

"My mother, Lady Iah, left earlier with a contigent of men to scout and report back on the state of things at the front lines." Una informs the group, her tone betraying her dissaproval of her mother's decision. "Now it seems they are in need of our aid." She turns to the soldier who brought the message, "We will need to know where they are, and everything else you know."

"Indeed it has been, Sir Erik. Several years. I suppose I keep to myself too much lately." There's a brief flash of warmth in her eyes along with a smile, despite the threat around the bend. "Yes, I believe we shall." Sealing her own helm on, she draws down the visor, concealing her features. "Identify friendlies," the instructions given to her AI, despite her lack of accepting technology, she does see the merits when needed.

Tiriel reaches over and speaks to Una, "If they have their locators, the suits should find them." She reminds her wife and speaks a good bit to her own armor to set it as she likes and then speak to set her wife's armor as well. "That should work for you." She notes and pulls her axe in close to her and ready for anything.

There are no men-at-arms bearing Cindravale colors, all having been deployed back home to defend against the Hostile infestation there but this doesn't keep the youngest knight from visiting other hotspot locations. He then issues a command to his armor's AI, "Send a message to the officer in charge that Sir Erik Cindravale is at their service and to place me where they see fit to engage the Hostiles." The Cindravale icon would be attached to the message for easy identification as well to whoever would receive the message. Then a direct message is sent to Brienne, «Sir Brienne, it would be an honor to fight at your side.»

Percival is not concerned with socializing among the many Houses represented, it would seem, but only on the emerging shape of the situation and whatever intel comes through. So his focus is largely on Lady Una's communications to the group, as well as on whatever her subordinates report back. "Size of the ambushing force?" he inquires across the command band. "And status of the Lady Iah's unit?"

Victor speaks up as Una queries the soldier, pointing with two fingers off in the direction indicated by his armor's AI. He nods at Tiriel's words, "That way. On flat ground, I'd say not too far, but on this shit…" and one boot scuffs across the ice and snow, "…it's gonna be a pain in the fucking ass to move fast." Inside his helmet, he adds, "Vera, tag and identify friendlies as they report in."

Ronan looks to Young Lady Una, "What's to know? We know where they should be… We go there and kill every one of those bastards until we send them all home or to hell, which ever comes first." Self-control has never been Ronan's strong suit, so the fact that he hasn't already rushed out is showing that he is burning through what he has.


"I've one of our scouts already ready to guide you, Young Lady Iah!" The soldier exclaims, "And coordinates will be transmitted to your HUD." he adds, before bowing and rushing back to the command tent. Over the comms, the distress call is patched through Half of my patrol is already dead, we're fighting a delaying action to keep them from breaking out, but we need reinforcements now! the voice on the other end of the transmission would be that of the Lady Ianthe Roste Iah, the current Lady at the head of House Iah. Of the soldiers currently present, none were particularly prepared for battle, this is a medical area some ways distant from the expected frontlines, and the minutes it would take to rally them to battle could be minutes Lady Iah does not have. The scout approaches Lady Una, "I'll guide you, Milady, but we have to hurry!"


"Don't let yourself get killed early, Sir Flint." Nitrim retorts, eyes narrowing with laughter beneath his hood. His fingertips flex over the pommel of his sword and he looks to Anabethe, taking the first steps in the direction of the coordinates. He reaches to his ear, tapping his earbud to speak to Victor and Anabethe. "Well, at least rushing over it will give us time to get used to the footing. See you on the field."

Tiriel gives a bit of a jump and what looks like some form of snowshoe spreads out around her feet. She reaches down and touches a button on her arm and Una's does much of the same. "Some help." She notes, "If your suits can make you some form of better feet, do it. We are running, people." She commands and lifts the axe into the air as a rally point before she points it towards the destination. "WE FIGHT!"

Una starts to say something to Ronan, reign him in, remind him of his duty to stay safe. But the soldier and the distress signal take all of her attention. In the end she only offers a single nod, glances to the others present to gain visual confirmation that all are ready, and preps her own HUD. Once her showshoes are in place she simply runs along with Tiriel.

Devon looks up sharply as the words come in, and she turns her head up toward Flint. "Don't have time. The Knight Lieutenant will handle the troops, we have to move." And that's when the Ash-Witch starts to also step forward with a steady stride on the snow — she has been spending some time adjusting to it, but she has realized it is like the ash fields. She glances toward the other Khournas, and her visor settles on Nitrim just as she flashes a handful of fire in her palms as if in some sort of wordless exchange. And then she's moving again, stepping up to join the Iah in their quick advance.

"Thanatos, mark friendlies in cyan highlights, Hostiles in white. Downed allies in bright green." Flint states to his onboard AI in his suit. Adjust for uneven terrian in the ankle supports. Que Flint's Mix Four to internal speakers, prepared on my mark." Looking back at Nitirm, he laughs. "Well, I suppose I have a reason to actually stay alive for a change. Somebody has got to train you, yeah?" Moving over, he pulls aside his second in command, a Knight Lieutenant Ramirez. "Ramirez! Hold the men back until their called for. Until prepare to move out when I contact you. Going to move on ahead and provide assistance." The Knight Lieutenant clips of a sharp salute, then going back to Nitrim. "C'mon, let's go have some fun."

"Let's book it, people," Anabethe says over the comm. "Anyone who falls behind misses the action." And with that, she braces herself to take off after the scout who knows the way. It may not be familiar terrain, but she's going to give it a go.

Cynan's immediate reaction to the news is, in a word, muted. He gives a little nod at the news, barely visible inside his helmet, whispers a few commands to his onboard AI, and snaps to the men-at-arms on his side. "We move as one. Go." Evidently he had the foresight to have his armor equipped with snowshoes before the trip, because he's off and running in moments. The other two aren't so lucky, falling flat on their faces when they try to keep up. Doubtless they'll get themselves there in time to help pick up the pieces.

Victor looks at the expansion of Tiriel and Una's boots, and he grunts, "Well fuck-a-doodle-do. This is gonna suck." He draws in a breath, then notes, "Vera, boot spikes." That's about all his unarmored boots can do, but what are usually climbing spikes should help on the ice at least a little. He starts forward at a slow trot, his feet slipping and sliding here and there where the spikes cannot find immediate purchase. On that tight-bead comm to Nitrim and Anabethe, he grumbles, "Fucking snow's worse than the godsdamned Hosties. See if you can keep up, 'Trim." he leaves his axe latched to the side of his armor, so that if he falls, he won't be flailing around with it.

Brie doesn't send a message to the officer in charge, deciding to just follow where the Cindravale goes, especially when she receives the direct message from the Knight himself. She does send one in return. «As with you, Sir.» Looking towards the others, she awaits direct orders so that she can assist where and when needed.

"Acknowledged," comes the clipped and not particularly emotional reply from Lord Larent. Like several others, he passes quick orders to a subordinate to begin preparing the troops in reserve for action. "Assemble the archers and their support, and move to point beta as soon as they are ready, in position to provide fire support from the ridgeline. I expect that we may have retreating injured, or incoming hostile, at some point in the near future." After that, he himself moves forward. Although the man is here for command and not youthful adventure, the Lady Iah is a peer and probably a friend, and it does not seem he will sit around waiting to aid her while he himself is in condition to fight.

With the urgency that is no doubt present, especially with the status update of the ambushed scout patrol, Erik tries his best to trek with the rest of the noble knights that are heading to reinforce the beleaguered forces. He wishes that his boots had those expanding components, the spikes the best he has as well. «Shame the terrain and climate does not allow horses, otherwise we could reinforce them in half the time and ride down the Hostiles.» He comms back to Brienne while they traverse over the white terrain, bastard sword still sheated securely over his back.

Tiriel gave the go ahead. That was good enough for Ronan. He turns and starts to head out. "Loki, initiate combat mode. Define allies. Define foes. Lock on Lady Iah's signal and give me the quickest route." As he starts to run through the snow, he practically drowns out the crunch of the snow and ice beneath his feet as well as the complaining of those who are not accustomed to it.

"Erdrick, to combat mode. Define friends, define hostiles. Identify clearest route to the front." That's spoken to Cynan's AI, softly, his voice as cool as the ice beneath his feet. Hidden beneath his visor, only the furrows forming in the Knight's brow betray his growing anxiety. No complaints from this one, despite the unfamiliar terrain. One hand just slides its way up toward the bastard sword strapped to his back.


The Scout is already heading off as the first of the nobles are ready to follow, and he is making great haste, practically running. Once outside of the shelter of the camp, and out onto an ice shelf the wind intensifies, visibility is rather limited from the drifting snow, but with the aid of mondern armor it is not too difficult to keep track of where one another is in the storm. The sounds of fighting can start to be heard, even over the storm, and vague outlines can be seen in the distance engaged in battle.


Una put on an extra burst of speed as the combat comes into range. Though she makes certain to remain close to Tiriel and not stray too far from Ronan, her purpose is clear. She must get to her mother.

Tiriel keeps tracking right on and taking the lead of the three of House Iah.

Used to the uneven forest floor, Brie doesn't have a whole lot of trouble navigating the path they are traveling with the rest of the forces. Hers may in fact have the spikes, but for entirely different reasons, for they do come in handy where she calls home. «I have to agree with you there, I was trained on the back of a horse. My family say Cindravale ruined me» As for Brienne herself, she laughs as she sends the comm over.

… Maybe Percival will end up arriving with his troops after all! It seems the older Lord Captain is not quite so up on huffing and puffing it with the younglings. Through the snow! He's a bit out of breath by the time he arrives, but fortunately the noise cancellation on the communications is programmed to filter out breathing and the like.

The air hazing around Nitrim as his psychometric powers keep him warm, he throws his weight into the wind and runs through the snow. Rushing alongside the others, tracks of white powder kick up where his feet were before, and he points the scabbard of his sword directly back to keep it from tangling with his legs. His aura deepens, becoming more visible against the howling wind and snow.

Victor may not be used to snow, but once you get going, it's not so different from wet ash, and Vera quite nicely lays out glowing warnings of hidden cracks in the ice so that Victor can leap over them. "Isolate comms, Vera, advance unit only, and prepare shifting." As he spots the first signs of movement ahead, he turns his steps in that direction, calling out, "Movement at 034" And only then does he pull the heavy axe from his hip, thumbing a button that extends the haft into a brutal two-handed length.

Ronan is almost reckless as he charges towards where his mother's signal. At the moment, he is not thinking, he is acting, purely on instinct. Una has Tiriel to watch after her. He knows that she will not let anything happen to his sister. First thought. Find Mother. Second thought. Kill Hostiles. Third thought. See first two thoughts.

Heavy, armored feet cut through the snow at a steady and unfaltering pace. Devon Grantham even manages to stay almost in pace with Young Lady Iah. She does fall back just a step of two behind her, but this is only for a short moment when Devon completely ignites into fire. It licks around her body, consuming her in a bright wash of red, yellow, and orange. The Awakened woman is in her full glory, with only her armored silhouette somewhat visible beneath the flames.

Years of training in harsh conditions, temperature aside, have given Cynan the grace he needs to handle the snow easily enough. As the sights of the battle enter his view, he slides the bastard sword off his back, gripping it in both hands, and breaks into a full run.

Anabethe keeps up relatively well, despite a lack of experience in snow. It's all about keeping your head down and powering forward, right? Her practice on the surface earlier helps, keeping her upright on a few spots of questionable footing. Bright red against the pristine snow, she runs without any cries or warnings, the shaft of her halberd tucked under her arm to keep from tripping herself as she goes.

Flint is whistling aling the way, as if the man doesn't have a care in the world. Granted, the locale could be better and less cumbersome, but pickers can't really be choosers at this particular moment in time. Still, the large bar-mace goes from single handed to double as the handle telescopes out for extra heft. And at that point, he slings it over a shoulder, which does make it easier to carry and allows a speedy acces for when something needs the pummeling.


As the the scene gains more clarity through the blowing snow, it becomes quite evident that things are infact very grim for the Havenites indeed, One can see a few of the Hostile troopers delivering death blows with sword, spear, or axe to fallen soldiers before turning to engage the new arrivals coming through the snow. Beyond them the form of Lady Iah, fallen to her knees with wounds evident on her armor can be scene, a large Hostile warrior has hold of her by the helmet, a vicious axe in hand as he brings it down to where the shoulder and neck meet. The large Hostile with the axe looks towards the group, his faceplate scarred by a blow from Lady Iah's own weapon. He turns and begins back through the snows, retreating, while another large Hostile turns towards the group, moving to engage the reinforcements. Materializing between the withdrawing hostile, and the group of Havenites is a contingent of scouts.


At the death of Lady Iah, the sprinting form of Nitrim Khournas flashes, and the aura of fire in the form of a serpent around his body pulsates. The head of the asp bares its fangs toward the incoming Hostile in an unheard hiss. His sword is drawn, pointed towards in his right hand as he whips his left towards the Hostile scouts.

Percival is trudging along as fast as he can behind the main body of troops. Seeing that he's not quite so quick as the young knights and unlikely to reach the fray with the rest of them, he has his crossbow out, a rather formiddable affair that is more gravity-sling and less bow. There is a low swear when they come upon the scene of the battle, or more properly the slaughter, but the man just grits his teeth and tries to find a bead on one of the larger hostiles.

Victor would probably dearly like to swat down those annoying little scouts just behind the first line of enemies, but… well… there's a first line of enemies to get to first. As his spiked steps pound closer to the enemy, he whips his two-handed axe up and over his head, circling it around to gain momentum. "This is Vic, blowing through the front line to take the back." Inside his helmet, he mutters, "Vera, Brimstone on my mark." Drawing in a breath, he waits until he is two steps from his chosen target, and then cuts loose with a wordless bellow. As the sound bursts from his armor's speakers, tearing into the frigid wind, the electrotreated fibers in his armor shift, changing the displayed image to a ruddy, flayed demon, its spiked, red skin torn away from its skull.

The sight that greets the group stops Una not for a second before she flashes forward, sword arcing toward the first Hostile to cross her path. There is one thought in her head now, one goal in her eyes. To reach the Hostile who just claimed her mother's life.

There is no doubt a smirk under the Cindravale's helm as they continue to trek through the snow in quick order, «We didn't ruin you, we made you better and more versatile. With style.» Soon enough though, the grim reality of what happened to the ambushed patrol is revealed and it is for the worst. The group is already decimated with the Lady Iah slain in a brutal fashion. Erik's body immediately tenses and he quickly shares his plans with the Arboren Knight, «Brienne, I'm going to flank those ranged targets. Can't let them just stand there and take free shots at our people.» With that said, he draws his bastardsword free with a ringing of steel, then he begins to run at full speed, ready to defend himself if one of the Hostiles get close enough to strike at him.

"Thanatos, begin music." Flint utters lowly into his helmet before his ears are flooded with the sound of a various classic rock band from his youth, all the while focusing on the first Hostile that his AI has locked onto. "You darling. You're my first dance partner." Taking his mace in both hands, he keeps it close before pulling back the weapon to the side and behind his body. With a sudden release of strength, he swings upwards like a baseball player takes a shot at the fences. It's not so much he's looking to hit the Hostile, rather he's looking to punt the damn thing into the next timezone.

Sir Cynan is near the front, and near the center of the group, and accordingly his eyes are set on the first rank of Hostiles. He holds the bastard sword loose in his hands, the tip extending out to the right and angling slightly down as he searches for an adversary. "Light give me strength," he mutters to himself, and there's just the briefest moment's hesitation before he charges.

Tiriel roars out as she sees the axe come down onto her mother in law. The axe is turned and made into a slicer as she brings it up and into the nearest Hostile that she can, aiming to do as much damage to that armor as the weapon allows. If anyone was close, they would hear quite a bit of foul language along with, "Una. Help her!"

Ronan pauses for just a second as he sees his mother on her knees. The blow lands, his mother falls. Ronan screams and bursts into a full charge. "Loki, activate shield." His hand draws his sword from its sheath with the intent of killing any Hostile that gets between him and the fleeing Hostile that just murdered his mother.

Anabethe doesn't waste time with debating where to go. She picks a target, swings her halberd free from under her arm, and charges into the line of Hostile invaders. No time for thinking and fear. Now is the time for vengeance.


The Hostile who had delivered the Death Blow to Lady Iah is injured by the combined Psycohmetric, and crossbow attacks, however he continues his retreat, and dissapears rather quickly into the blowing snow. The large one with the greatsword however has moved into range of the Havenites, while the scouts both ready for combat, or reload their arms…


As the distance between both sides close and clash together, Erik's eyes sees one of the Hostiles that is trying to take him on or prevent him from engaging their ranged compatriots. However, the Cindravale is skilled enough to parry the blow from the Bludgeon and pushing the Hostile back, being covered nicely by the Arboren Knight. Then he's in the midst of the Hostiles that are wielding ranged weapons, ready to cause mayhem so they do not shoot freely on the Havenites for another round.

Nitrim's fingers flick out towards the same Hostile that Sir Flint is attacking. Like a rolling buzz-saw in the snow, a line of power snow explodes at breakneck speed towards the Hostile, and the armor on its arm splinters and breaks at the impact. Moving quickly, Nitrim has just enough time to spin his shoulder to dodge the mighty downward swing of a great bludgeon. Nitrim's leg twists and the majority of the weapon's force is deflected by the plating in his leg armor. With no time to spare, he chops in a backhanded motion with his sword.

The first rush of combat sees Anabethe closing with a Hostile who bears arms similar to her own. Apparently she hasn't learned from the last time yet. Or maybe she's just keeping the reach equal. As she braces the foot of her staff into the snow to slide around the Hostile, it manages to get a slice through to her leg, and her return strike doesn't seem to impact the creature. She isn't giving up just yet, though, coming to a knee to attack once more.

As Tiriel lashes out with her axe, a nice side blow comes in and tanks her in the head. It rings her a good one and she spins and goes down to one knee. from inside the helm «Shit. That hurt.» As one could easily see her shake her head to stop the canaries from fluttering inside her helm. "Since when do we have birds on Iah?" She says and keeps trying to bring herself back from that hard ringer.

Victor does not slow his charge, as he buries his axe into the torso of the Hostile he comes up against, only to have it catch momentarily on some cybernetic part beneath the armor. Wrenching the heavy weapon free, the Khourni calls out on the comms, "Passing through!" The demon-skull on his helmet moves its jaw in time with the next words as he snarls out his helmet speakers, "Come on then, you big motherfucker! I'll have you!" He trusts that someone behind him will engage the Hostile he hit and keep it off his back, focusing instead on one of the apparent commanders.

There's nothing terribly flashy about Cynan's attack. At full speed, he sprints until he's face-to-face with a maul-wielding Hostile, and his weapon comes up and across the adversary's body, the impossibly sharp tip slicing deep into its torso, slowed but not stopped by the armor that stands in its way. In the process, he finds himself standing side-by-side with Nitrim before he whirls around, chopping at the Hostile's upper body. The projectile that /spangs/ off the armor on his leg doesn't get a second thought.

Una slashes at the first Hostile she sees. But he dodges, just as another aims a blow at her chest. Its enough only to make her stumble back a step, her armor deflecting it effectively. Her change in stance, of course, gives her the perfect view of Tiriel, and the Hostile who's sword goes straight for her head. Though there were no words for her mother, this time she screams without thought, "TIRIEL!" Changing course, she charges at the Hostile daring to attack her wife!

Suddenly, that Hostile that Flint and Nitrim was attacking no longer has an arm, the limb going sailing away from it's previous owner. The Hostile falls to knees from the combined attack only to have it's head taken off by another blow by the Grantham. Gaining footing again, Flint has just enough time to jump out of the way of an incoming lance that was directed at him. As much as he'd like to chance after the commanding Hostile, another enemy requires his attention. "Alright, guess you're next in line, darling." just as he swing his mace against in a horizontal motion, weapon arcing around him to the Hostile's side.

Ronan moves to engage the first Hostile that happens to be in his way. Tiriel was right beside him. The Hostile swings at him, but it registers that the blow as not intended for him, but he sees it make contact with his sister-not-by-blood Tiriel. The Hostile makes the mistake of not paying attention to Ronan as he swings, striking the enemy. He continues with a spinning flourish, preparing to follow through again. The white fur cloak moving about him like a spiral of snow.

Within his Defender Armor's helm, Percival aims. Within his helm, the HUD displays a highlighted silhouette around his target hostile, an aiming reticle for his bow, and a secondary triangular reticle that tracks ahead of the target, compensating for movement, gravity, and (here especially) wind speed. Lining one with the other, he squeezes the trigger, and his bulky launcher gives a low WHUMP as the gravitic slings speed the projectile and then disgorge it, firing at slightly faster than shield-penetrating velocity, but allowing for drag, such that the projectile maintains optimum force by the time it impacts. And impact it does, on the chest of his target. He doesn't attempt to chase down the fleeing hostile - he's still a bit back from the main fray - but does sling the crossbow and draw his sword, while a blueish lattice of hardened light forms over his right arm.

When the nearest one to Brienne and Erik seems to be attacking the Cindravale, the Arboren, with her polearm, swings towards the Hostile just as Erik evades it, pushing it back and together, the two take out the Hostile in one single attack. Beneath her helm, her lips curve into a smile as she quickly goes for the next one nearest her as Erik cintinues on.

As she tears down through the snow, white collecting over her feet, riding up through the soft crack and grooves of her armor and reflecting the vibrant fire of her Awakened aura. Devon slams her hands outward, and from them emerges a gulf of fire that is shaped like a meteor, tearing through the cold of Niveus. Almost immediately, her aura bursts wide from her shoulders, creating sprawling wings off her shoulderblades that make her look like an angelic firebird. But then her aura is abruptly withdrawn as a sword cuts through her armor, her underarmor, and deep across her chest. She screams out in obvious pain, almost dropping to a knee into the snow as she looks up into the vile visage of the Hostile. But it is the warning flash in her helmet that truly captures her attention. Sir Tiriel Iah is down, her armor informs her. Her aura bursts just a touch bigger again, and she slides into a more defensive stance even as her mind expands out beyond her, gently touching Tiriel's and attempting to coax her back from the brink.

Nitrim's hack to the Hostile is warding, allowing a moment to distract the once-human so that Sir Cynan can get in a better hit. Metal rings out against metal as his attack is innefective, and as the Hostile's great bludgeon is swung like a baseball bat towards him, he bends his back. The attack sails harmlessly over the tip of his nose. As he rights himself, his aura flares once more, and the writhing flame serpent that surrounds him courses up his chest, wraps down the sleeve of Nitrim's coat, and lashes out towards the Hostile's neck.

From her new angle, Anabethe gets better traction on the ice, thrusting her halberd up and into the abdominal cavity of her opponent. There's a satisfying crunch of sound, a flash of spark, and as she draws her weapon back and stands, a gush of some green fluid spills onto the pale snow. The Khournas heir regains her feet as the Hostile whiffs right past her, pressing the attack.

The choices that the Cindravale is taking appears more fit for a knight wearing Defender Armor, or just a really crazy and risktaking Aggressor Armor warrior because instead of focusing on the Hostile that he had cut at the neck, Erik is already changing targets. It appears that his tactics is indeed to cause chaos in the backlines of the Hostile, to either stop or at least distract them from finding their marks. He even activates his comm to transmit outside of his helm, taunting the invaders, "Put down those pea shooters, you fucking abominations. I bet all /five/ of you scrap heaps can't take on a Cindravale who is by himself!" This time, Erik's blade is cutting down at one of the Hostiles till intent on shooting its weapon.

There is a dance of blades between Ronan, Una, and the Hostile. Sadly, Una's blade only makes contact with the bastard's armor, while luckily the Hostile's blade misses Una all together. This time though he is aware of Ronan and manages to avoid the young Iah's blade this time. This is not a tourney, showmanship means nothing on this field, and Ronan intends to fell the opponent - anyway necessary.

You must rise, Sir Tiriel, Devon's soft and gentle voice echoes in her mind, touching the depths of her consciousness and offering her the chance to find a renewed strength. She is still glowing like a patch of flame in the snow, though it does not melt around her. She looks up toward the morning skies of Niveus, and she takes a moment to touch her own chest where her vibrant red blood stains the white snow. She slowly starts to right herself though, knowing that this is no time to think of the internal damage or the pain. Once Tiriel rises, she will find another Hostile target.


The Hostiles continue their attacks, two having joined the fallen as they fight the havenites. The scouts, harried by Erik as they are, continue attempting to take targets of opportunity with their launchers, while two engage the Cindravale knight with axe.


Up and around comes Cynan's bastard sword, up and around and right into the armor on the Hostile's arm. The Dalton curses under his breath, but that curse gives way to a silent expression of gratitude when that monster of a weapon fails to do any damage to Nitrim for the second time in a row. Evidently he's not planning on letting his adversary get a third shot: he sets his feet, tilts his chin upward to stare straight at the Hostile's head, and lifts his blade high. Putting his whole body into the attack, he lunges forward, tip of the blade heading straight for its head.

Tiriel shakes her head a little more and it suddenly clears. She grasps her axe and swings it out around the area and tries to impact with a part of the nearest Hostile to her… The one that rang her bell a moment earlier. Still, as she swings she uses the momentum to bring herself back up to her feet, «Who… Is that?» She responds to the voice.

Victor slams the haft of his axe up to block the downward swing of the big Hostile's Serious Sword, only to have his block nearly driven straight through. Letting out an explosive gust of breath, he curses, "Knight's Bloody Balls." The monomolecular edge of the sword is the first Hostile weapon to pierce Victor's armor, and it draws a welling of blood over the faux-demon-hide, blood that begins to steam immediately in the chill air. Twisting the haft of his axe between his hands, Victor throws the sword free, and brings the butt of the axe up, a dagger-like blade slipping out of the base to cut across the back of the big Hostile's hand. "Suck it, Hostie fuck. I'm gonna turn you into spare fuckin' parts."

Light-shield held before him, Percival joins the fray, his heavily armored adding to the line of vengeful Havenites. As before, he chooses one of the enemy leaders as his target, and spotting Victor closing, angles off to one side. Holding his shield up and stabbing around past it, he's unable to pierce the hostile's defense, but perhaps his harrying blows distract the target somewhat, allowing Victor in with his much more sizable weapon. However, with the large hostile focused on the Khourni, he shifts his stance somewhat, opening up to attack directly rather than around the barricade.

Second verse, same as the first as Flint manages to get out of the way of that lance with hop to the side. His swing, however, bites into the Hostile's armor, blood coming back at the cross-shaped head of his bar mace. He moves in, hopefully trying to get past that lance's length where it's not nearly as effection, thrusting his mace forward, but it ends up being a feint where he actually swings it across his body, then back down again, trying to bring it down on the Hostile's shoulder. Seems like Flint is in the mood to start collecting arms if he has his way. Y'know, arms for his coat of arms. Get it? Eh, well, it's funny to the knight.

Una fights alongside Ronan, her eyes practically glowing with her fierce anger. One of them is going down, and she has every intention of making sure that it will be the Hostile. She falls back, narrowly missing the attack aimed at herself, and swiftly returns with another.

The big Hostile Brie is fighting is quite a rough one to tackle but when she notices a couple of them on Erik, she chances her attack to one of the ones on the Cindravale Knight, the only one she knows fairly well in the mix around her.

A compatriot. But we can save more direct introductions after the battle is won, Sir, And then the connection severs — politely at least. This allows Devon to send her aura into its full glory once more as she pulls herself upright. She draws the energy around her, bringing her hands together in a triangular pattern as she throws out another meteor-like burst toward the Hostile, even if it goes blazing past its shoulder and dissipates into nothingness.


The remaining scouts fire off their launchers, before drawing axes to collapse in upon the two knights amidst their ranks now, ganging up on the lone heroes, while the front lines of the Hostile troops continue to dwindle under Havenite axe and sword. The large one continues to fight quite well, despire being ganged up on, however, though has yet to gain significant edge of it's opponents.


Victor steps aside as he actually notices Percival's presence alongside him, moving to flank the big Hostile with the Larent. "Vera, Base camp push: Medical team to map grid…" he waits half a heartbeat before the proper number flashes on his screen, then repeats it for the comm officer back at camp. Ducking under a sweep of the Hostile's sword, he lashes out with his axe-head, just barely catching the big thing's left arm with a glancing blow. "Vera, shift." And his armor flickers out of the demonic visage, flashing to a scattered and random pattern of gray, black, and white slashes designed to disguise his outline.

And Cynan lunges, indeed… but his blade /just/ misses the Hostile's head when he swings his bludgeon down to strike Nitrim, slicing through the air as the adversary follows through. "Bastad," he mutters under his breath. "By the Light, I /will/ bring you low." He hesitates for a moment as another projectile glances off his armored leg, but his eyes are fixed on the maul-wielding Hostile. No hesitation this time, but he takes a moment to steady himself before bringing the bastard sword chopping down at the Hostile's head with all his might.

Anabethe spins around a strike from her opponent, halberd reversing to draw back far enough to give her blow strength once she's back around. With enough space to truly swing, she braces herself in the snow and brings the blade end hard enough the Hostile's chest, ripping down into the cavity already left by her previous blow. She doesn't watch it fall, knowing the feeling of a killing blow, instead turning toward the Hostile attacking Flint to lend a little aid.

The dance of blades continues, but this time, it does not go so well for the Hostile. As both Una and Tiriel hack at his neck, Ronan cleaves his blade into the thing's stomach. As it falls, Ronan takes survey of the field. Seeing the two knights across the field, he moves to dash across the way to join them.

It appears that Erik's intentions has come to fruition, the ranged Hostiles have dropped their primary weapons and are now drawing their melee weapons. The Cindravale is able to tell that these Scout types are definitely not as skilled as the warrior types when it comes to close quarter combat. With the Arboren Knight now at his side, they can fight a delaying action while the rest of the Havenites finish decimating the frontlines. «Brienne, what took so long, did you take one of those creatures out on a date?» Erik can be seen fighting in a more defensive manner, parrying and sidestepping, waiting for an opportunity to lash out with his bastardsword.

Flint feels the impact of spear on his armor, but there's no pain. The angular design of his plating allowing the blow to glance harmlessly off him, but at the same time allowing the Hostile back away out of his swing. Seems it realizes the problem if the Grantham gets in too close. So he presses the advantage moving in again, pulling back with his mace to swing diagonally across his chest. "You fight well! I'll enjoy drinking mead out of your GODDAMN SKULL!" then pulls the mace down to direct the attack.

The wave of fire washes over Nitrim's arm and off of his fingertips, leaping towards the neck of the Hostile, and as it bites it fails to find any purchase. The superheated air between Nitrim and the Hostile wafts in a haze, and the Hostile's great bludgeon cuts through it like a cloud. The heavy mace connects solidly against Nitrim's chest, and a resounding crack of ribs and armored plating can be heard by all around. Nitrim stumbles back, pointing his sword towards the Hostile to ward off in defense. He quickly gets his footing and his hand springs back towards the Hostile, holding his ground. "Come on you ugly son of a bitch."

Una's sword flashes, Ronan's as well. And then Tiriel is up, and together the three end the Hostile. Its enough to take the edge of of Una's emotions, allowing her the time to think and take stock of how things stand rather than fighting blindly. As Ronan moves to aid the two lone knights, she returns to the battle at hand, giving Tiriel a short look to convey silent emotions before she attacks again.

Focused on the fray with the large hostile, Percival doesn't even see the one shooting at him from the back. A warning shows in the peripheral of his HUD vision, but not soon enough for the man to avoid it, and as it impacts with his chestplate, a new image appears on the HUD, showing his armor, the breached section highlighted red. "Dismiss," he grunts, to get it out of his vision, and then thrusts forward, scoring a center-mass hit, but not hard enough to puncture the enemy's own plating. "Push into their reserves," he calls over the comm, an encouragement toward reducing that incoming fire.

With attacks coming, Brie manages to avoid the bolts of steel that fire off so that she approaches the group Erik seems to have garnered the attention of. «Oh you know me, so indecisive. Thought I'd come check out what you have to offer over here.» Like Erik, Brienne attempts for defensive fighting. That is until she gets to his side and she notices how many are fighting him. She aims for the head of one and just goes for it with her polearm.

Victor whirls his axe up over his head, swapping the grip of his hands on the haft so that he can bring it slamming down from his left side, but the tug and pull of the cut in his left arm — not to mention the chill cold creeping into his veins from the rent in his armor — robs his blow of some of its power, and he merely dents a section of the Hostile's pauldron into its shoulder. "Vera, Lord Larent." He waits a heartbeat for a green dot to appear next to the man's name floating over his head, and he calls out, "I'll take this fucker high, Lord Larent. See if you can get him low."

Tiriel looks to Una for a split second and then swings out with her axe towards the closest Hostile. The intent to clear the area to get to the Lady of the house and protect her if she is alive at all after this.

Una continues to fight, staying with the first group. Her intent is the same as Tiriel's. Reach Lady Iah and see if anything can still be done for her.

Something about Nitrim, Cynan, and Una's collective Hostile simply…won't…die. Despite the fire serpent. Despite Cynan and Una's swordplay, and despite the sheer about of energy that Nitrim has blasted it with…it still stands. Turning and dodging, deflecting, and fighting as the Hostile seems to have made Nitrim its mortal enemy. Eventually, another shot gets through, this time to Nitrim's arm, which crunches beneath the weight of the heavy mace. His sword arm going slack, the air in front of Nitrim bursts in a cone of fire as he continues his footwork, providing a target while the others hack at it. Still…the young man is in extreme amounts of pain. His heavily booted feet dig into the snow, and a feral growl booms from his teeth as he shoves forward with all of his Awakened might.

Another series of blows being exchanged between the Cindravale and the Hostiles currently engaging him. One strikes him in the armor, a glancing blow that mars the protective steel while a second blow manages to pierce it but only a grazing wound that is more irritating than lethal. The third attack is parried by Erik's greatsword before he strikes out at one of the scouts attacking Brienne. He continues to change targets, trying to keep the Hostiles off-balance and unsure who he will be striking next, «We must hold, Brienne, the others should be finished butchering the front line soon.»

Cynan's eyes stay on his target from start to finish, and his blade comes down and strikes true, biting through the Hostile's armor to bite deep into its skull. Somewhat amazingly, the maul doesn't drop and the Hostile isn't quite out of the fight, but when he sees two other Havenites rushing to assist and hears the Lord Larent's voice crackling through, Cynan takes a step back to survey the battlefield, muttering, "Erdrick. Identify Hostile reserves." When five red dots appear highlighted on the HUD, he breaks into a run, leaving the wounded Hostile behind and closing in on the scouts.

At least Percival is flanking for Victor? He launches another jab at the Hostile, but the sword just isn't making a dent on that armor. "Oh, I'm trying. I'm afraid this sword isn't quite the match of your can-opener. I will continue to try and distract him as I might." He's close enough that the HUD has little to help him with, save for tracking the position of the other enemies around him on the field.

Ronan crosses the field almost like a track runner jumping bodies like low hurdles. As he nears the two Havenite knights, a slight chuckle can be heard - though it could be minorly manic - "This a private party or can anyone join in?" He advances at one of the Hostiles that had seconds before been doing its best to attack Erik.

It has taken Devon a few moments to fully get past the pain in her chest from the wound. She has thrown yet another fireball over the heads of her target, and it splashes uselessly into the snow beyond. She glances up toward the others around her, as if taking stock of them, before she then returns her energy to the next attack. This time she ceases her passive stance.

With the Hostiles now focused on the two of them, Brienne takes a more aggressive stance and swings at another attacking the Cindravale. «Yeah, tell that to the Hostiles.»Brie teases him back through the comm. When Ronan joins in, she glances over. "Hey. I'm Sir Brienne Arboren, welcome to the party."

Anabethe thrusts, her halberd hitting the Hostile just as Flint's hammer does the same. « Nice, Grantham! » she says with a grin behind her helm, and with two Hostiles down, turns her attention to the poor fool who's been giving her brother a hard time. Again. « Be right there, Nitrim, » she says, turning to take on the next.

"That's what I'm fucking talking about!" Flint roars as the combination of destruction on him and Anabethe's part pretty much make that Hostile explode into viscera of blood, guts and cybernetics. "I'm coming back for that head. I got myself a new drinking mug!" Seeing Ana run off to go and gangstroke that one that everyone else is going toward, the Grantham makes a mad dash towards the HOstiles at the back, bringing some needed power to the group farther in.

Victor brings the haft of his axe across his body, really stepping into the parry this time and stopping the Hostile's greatsword from reaching his body, "Hah! Fuck you very much, Hostie, think you're so strong!" Whipping the axe back to his left, he tries to plant the monomolecular head in the Hostile's throat, only to have its heavy frame bend in a lithe way that really shouldn't even be possible for something so big. "Knight on a crutch! These things are fast."

For what its worth, Percival swings low just like his partner in flanking suggests, striking the Hostile in the leg. But once more, it just plinks off. Plink.

As Ronan joins in the fray, he gives a quick bit of a flourished bow, "Sir Ronan Iah… " As the Hostile moves, "Woa, there ugly." Ronan steps and and feels the blow to his abdomen and responds with a lunge of his blade into the Hostile. Unfortunately the enemy's blow was enough to knock the air from his lungs, along with most likely a few cracked ribs, and he staggers backwards.

Two Hostiles down, and Anabethe stops by a third for one more halberd to the chest cavity on her way. « Nitrim, impressive! » she shouts through the comm, grin audible even in her voice. Then she's spinning, searching out remaining enemies and catching sight of the scouts. « Few more left, » she notes, sprinting toward the other group.

Even the fall of one of the Havenite warriors isn't enough to draw Cynan's attention for very long as he runs to the rear of the battlefield. The Hostile who brought him down is itself out of the fight, after all, and there are still four very mobile, very dangerous ones left. Gripping the bastard sword as tightly as ever, he comes face-to-face with one of the scouts, tip of the weapon hovering just above the top of the snow for a moment before he strikes.

Though Una's wound is barely enough to do more than cause pain, the others manage to take it out. Leaving only one left. And an intimidating one at that. She rounds on the last Hostile in range, taking her sword in both hands and swinging with all the might she has.

Heavy rock music is still jamming in Flint's speakers, as the heavily armored Grantham strides forward toward that big ol Hostile that Victor has been soloing for some time now. "Hey, big-un! May the Crone spit on that thing you call a fucking face when you're sent to the hereafter!" Two steps more forward and he takes a running leap at the Hostile, mace swinging to hit the long ball, trying to go yard. He doesn't seem to so much care where he hit, so long as he hits. Because anywhere if he hits is going to be painful.

Nitrim's black, leather clad glove lashes out and the cone of blazing energy in front of the man pulls in, tightens, and visibly rushes out towards the Hostile in all of the physical force of a knight's speeding lance. Una and Tiriel are splattered with the contents of the Hostile's neck, spraying all around them in a gory mess of green fluid and red blood. Though Nitrim's furious, angry eyes are not finished. Death is not certain. The gloved hand curls into a fist and quickly tucks back towards Nitrim, and the throat is ripped out of the creature. Nitrim, in turn, is sprayed with the gore and he lets the body fall. His eyes dart between Una and Tiriel, and he slowly turns to find another one to kill. He starts after the Granthams to link back up with them. « Sir Flint, Anabethe, Victor, Lady Devon. I'm rejoining. » He signals to them as he walks, like a slowly strolling killer in a movie. « Let's hope the Hostile get a feed of this. I want them to know who I am. »

Another of the Iah collapse, and Devon turns sharply toward Ronan. She is not engaged with an enemy like she was last time, so this time her aura collapses into a mere whisper of flames. She reaches out, generating warmth in her hands, spreading it out toward Ronan just as her mind touches him, providing him with thoughts of comfort and encouragement. This telepathetic connection Ronan is why she does not answer Nitrim. At least not right away.


The Hostile Elite is continuing it's fierce battle with it's three opponents, gradually being worn down, but fighting fiercly none the less. His sword lashing out even as he is attacked. The battle around the scouts is joined by more Havenites as the Hostiles number diminishes by one more. The strong wind continues to blow, sending snow flying, and creating the beginings of small drifts up against the corpses of the fallen


"Join the fun!" Erik says as more blows are exchanged and being rained on him, with Brienne's help though, the Hostiles bearing down on him are becoming sluggish and slow. The Cindravale is able to parry one blow while the second misses him entirely, his own blade drawing another wound on yet another Hostile, leaving no scouts unwounded now. Seeing Ronan taking a hit, Erik calls out while his blade searches for more Hostile blood, "Sir Ronan, this party isn't over yet, back on your feet!"

Getting a few good hits in, Brie continues her fighting, looking back at Erik then Ronan… only Ronan falls. Looking towards him briefly, she moves towards him but sees someone else doing it, so she goes back to the Hostile she is already fighting.

Tiriel looks to the fallen Ronan and speaks through the link between those of the house. «Get up. I need you here, Ronan. Get up.»

Anabethe sprints toward the group of scouts being taken care of by Cindravale and Arboren. « You all mind if I join the party? » she asks as she skids through the last foot and a half of snow, bringing her halberd to bear on the Hostile attacking Brienne without really waiting for permission. Because hey, share and share alike when it comes to killing Hostiles!

Victor takes a hammer-blow from that heavy sword right to the chest, the slash slipping past his defenses, but he merely bares his teeth behind his armor, "Gonna have," his axe snaps down, aiming to hook the beard of the blade over the Hostile's weapon to keep it in place as others pile in, "…to do better than that, motherfucker." Even as he talks, the random timer in his suit's AI kicks in, and his armor shifts from its flash gray camouflage to purest white, making it difficult to see where he ends and the snowy landscape begins.

The will is there, but the body is just not listening. Sir Ronan lies there trying to breathe, though the air just does not fill his lungs as much as he needs them to. The one good thing though about falling in an unfathomable amount of snow and ice is that you don't really get dirty while you're down.

Cynan's blade comes up and around in a blow clearly intended to bisect the Hostile from left hip to right shoulder… but the Hostile in question bends out of the way, and his weapon catches nothing but air. There's another curse muttered under his breath, one that's redoubled as he sees another nearby Havenite fall to a Hostile's weapon… but in the meantime, he's now face-to-face with another scout, and he lashes out, a bit less controlled this time. Hopefully the blow can make up with aggression what it lacks in finesse.

Devon looks up sharply now as she hones her eyes on that massive Hostile. It is good, in some ways, to know that they come in multiple sizes. She will have to think more on that later as she throws out her hands, launching another burning meteor of fire toward the target, and seeing with some measure of satisfaction, it splash across its armor and draw from beneath the plates blood and scorched cybernetics.

Brienne didn't see it coming and as she's struck not once, but twice, by two different Hostiles, she goes down. No worries there Erik, doesn't look lik e she is getting up anytime soon!

Percival is slowly being joined by an increasing circle of people around the hostile he and Victor are fighting. Flankollelogram!

There's are few joys in life for Flint: the taste of a good mug of mead, the telling of a horribly dirty joke, the sound of a woman in the throws of esctasy, and certainly not least, the feel of of a good strike on an enemy. His flying leap and swing come down hard on the big Hostile, giving him enough time to steady himself. "Get up, you peice of shit! We're not done with you yet!" The Grantham is bordering on a blood lust at the moment, but given his wherewithall, he's still somewhat paying attention to his surrondings. Griping his bar mace with renewed vigor, he swings the weapon at horizontal arc, trying to crush the thing's pelvis. Or whatever passes for a Hostile pelvis.

Tiriel finally makes her way to Lady Iah, and begins carefully pulling her toward safety to try and find any way possible to revive her. Its obvious already though that there is very little, if anything at all, that can be done.

Una, her attacks against the last Hostile ineffective, turns and sees that Ronan is down. Spinning in the snow, she flies to his side, dropping to one knee and grabbing at his shoulder. "RONAN! Ronan, wake up! You will get up, do you hear me? Ronan!""

Coat and scarf whipping in the wind as he trudges, the snow in front of Nitrim blasts upwards. The powder quickly forms and packs, frosting over into a razor-sharp spike of frost that speeds off towards the Hostile. It jams into the chest plating of the Hostile as it fights Victor, but doesn't seem to damage the creature. He pulls the scarf from his face, exposing his lips as he comes to a stop, watching it fight his cousin. "I want to see if this thing feels fear…" He murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing "HEY!" He barks out to the large Hostile. "Your gods are OLD and DEAD. They've abandonned you. If your masters hear me, we'll send them to the Devil." He grunts, lashing out with his open palm.


The battle, with one of the scouts finding a weak point in Brienne's armor, delivering a telling blow, and the remaining scouts continue to embattle the Havenites who continue to stream in and engage them. Something unexpected happens however, in response to Nitrim's words.

The massive Hostile turns toward Nitrim, those deep pits of his eyes illuminating into a bright and burning lamp-light yellow. It speaks, deep and rumbling like a chasm though there is almost no inflection, no accent to be heard. It is mechanical. "Your Six are obsolete. They have been replaced."


"Then why are you about to fucking DIE?" Nitrim grins to the eyes.

Anabethe misses the part where her brother baits giant Hostiles, which is probably for the best. Instead, her attention is fixed on the Hostile she's fighting, bending back from its attack and slamming her halberd into its chest in turn. There's a slice, more blood from her enemy, and she springs back to circle again, seeking the end of it.

The moment Cynan takes to aim his blade is a rather painfully spent one, as it gives the Hostile a moment to bring his weapon up and crashing down on his left arm. He doesn't recoil from the attack, though - indeed, he holds his ground and lunges forward, driving the tip of the bastard sword straight through the Hostile's chest. There's a /shick/ as he yanks the blade back out of the Hostile's body, then whirls about, facing the scout he'd attacked previously.

Oh son of a BITCH Nitrim thinks to himself as the bolt of raw, telekinetic force PINGS off of the side of the massive Hostile's head. Elated that he managed to actually get the attention of one of the invaders, he's suddenly overcome with the frustration that the promise of death he just made to the thing didn't come through. With a grunt, he reaches to his limp sword arm and gingerly hands the sword into his free hand, stabbing it into the snow at his feet. "NO!" He barks at the Hostile. "You look at ME." He dares, his firey aura surging around him as he builds up his strength for another attack. "Because I'm going to be there when your pitiful gods fail you. This is OUR land and this will be the last time." Wincing at the pain to his broken ribs, the snow explodes around him and he lashes out again.

Erik's blade almost cleaves into the neck of the Hostile he was fighting but a blow against his arm throws off his aim, just barely. There is no wound taken though, just armor crumpling slightly under impact. He presses on though, unrelenting with full intention to finish off the Hostiles.

Back on her feet, Brienne is intent on destroying another of the Hostiles, zeroing in on it, she attacks with her polearm, though she's not in top shape herself, from the wounds she's received. She does look over to check on Erik and Ronan in the process, glad to see both up and running.

Victor blinks as the Hostile speaks, the action slowing his response just a hint, so that his own blow goes awry — although he manages to avoid striking any of the others gathered around the big machine — and he takes another slice in his left arm, cutting down the length of his forearm from his leather gauntlet up under the plates of his actual vambrace. "Religious debate. Wonder-fucking-full." Glancing aside at Nitrim, he switches back to internal comms, "Knock it off, 'Trim. Let me tank his ass." Because they totally have MMOs and such to provide that terminology.

Percival shifts around in the midst of the increasingly large circle of Havenites. He doesn't participate in any trading of banter or insults with his foe. The HUD updates with more fallen enemies as the rest of his allies close in around this heavily armored foe. As before, he does what he can to help Victor's effort, lunging in and jabbing, slashing, or hacking here and there to foul the creature up as best he can. In this process, he he manages to strike one of its hands mid-swing, this time actually biting through the armor, albeit barely. It's something!

Finally Ronan manages to breathe. He gets to his feet, "Son of a bitch!" He is still gasping for breath but his hands clutch around the grip of his sword and swings at the closest Hostile.

Heaving a slightly shaky sigh of relief as Ronan opens his eyes, Una stands with her brother and turns to face these new opponents. Keeping at his back, she swings at the nearest hostile.

Devon fearlessly launches another attack toward the big dude, but its words do cause her to catch just a moment — perhaps why the meteor does nothing more than dissipate over its arm as her concentration staggers just a moment. She looks up sharply into the visage of the Hostile and then she steps forward with another burst of flames around her body.

The mace hits, but nearly as good as he'd like. "When you're dead, and your planet is glassed ash, I will spit on the graves of your people. You're obsolete." Flint all but spits venom. Bringing his mace about, he charges forward, bringing down the weapon across his chest.


The large Hostile adopts a more defensive stance, as it begins to withdraw from the overwhelming odds it faces, taking steps away from it's opponents as it tries to clear some distance from it and them. The scouts continue to fight, even as their numbers continue to dwindle against the oncoming Havenite blows.


As the Hostile starts to retreat, Devon immediately launches toward the fallen Lady Iah. She is slides to a stop beside Tiriel, bracing a hand against her arm before she gently and yet firmly asks her to give her some space. The medic starts to go about the motions, checking her vitals, examining her wounds, searching for possible stabilization solutions. She ignores the battlefield, swept up in the immediacy of the fallen noblewoman.

It's like there's a magnet on the Hostile chests. Anabethe lines up her shot and sweeps the blade end of her halberd up and through the slice in the Hostile's chest plate, this time bringing out a spray of blood and bits of…maybe it's lung? Hard to tell, really. The snow is trampled and dirty, but another of the enemy is down, and the Khournas heir turns her attention to the next scout within reach, staff whirling at her side.

The Hostile's weapon /thuds/ against his armor, but even though it's not enough to hurt Cynan, it's enough to give him a bit of pause. He lashes out with the tip of the blade, landing a glancing blow on the enemy's right hand, and then pulls the bastard sword up in a simple guard, parallel to his body, eyes fixed on the scout. Only the angling of the tip toward the place where the thing's throat ought to be indicates any aggressive intent on his part at all.

Una helps to take down one more, and turns to another. The need to get to her mother is growing almost impossible to igtnore, but the need to take down every single one of the Hostiles involved in harming her hasn't yet released her.

The brutal fighting is indeed slowly coming to the end and Erik can feel it. His downswing catches the Hostile scout in the hand and next the Cindravale is bringing his blade back in a reverse cut, intent on ending the invader's life.

Victor drives forward with great sweeps of his two-handed axe, trying to catch the big Hostile or at least slow his retreat long enough for the others to catch it. The big armored… thing… is able to avoid the blows, however, and Victor snarls behind his helmet, having to constrain some of those wide arcs to avoid hitting his fellow Havenites as the fight turns into a chase.

There's no more talking from Flint. No more bragging. No more nothing, the Grantham just wants this thing dead more than anything he's ever fought before. There's really no good way of describing something like that. So he just swings away, wanting to break it down into little pieces.

Then light them on fire. Then piss on them.

"By all means, Victor, TANK his ass." Nitrim brushes his forearm underneath his cold, reddened nose as the Hostile starts to retreat. Again, the Hostile seems to be staving off so many of their combined efforts. "This thing is retreating. Good. We want it to want to retreat." He comments, picking the sword up from the snow. His boots crunch against the ground at his feet as he stalks forward, walking past Devon and Lady Iah. He glances down to them as he passes, giving the limp body a look of quiet sympathy. He gnashes his teeth and continues to stalk along behind the line of knights hacking away at it. He points his eyes fall to its throat…

Ronan swings at the Hostile who happens to be engaged with Cynan. His blade lightly hitting the enemy's chest. "Why don't you die already?" He twirls the swords lightly in his hand before taking a step and thrusting with the blade.

Weary, Brienne continues attacking, but mostly ineffectively… she pauses for a breath before once more going for the same Hostile, glad of the others around again.


The Large Hostile's defensive action is largely effective, preventing any blows from landing on it's form as he draws the group of havenites engaging him back with him, in the same direction his other large companion withdrew previously. It remains impassive, despite it's injuries. The two remaining scouts continue to fight on, despite themselves, embattling the group of havenites engaging them as best as they might, given the odds.


"Lady Iah," Devon announces herself to the woman as she starts to pull from her slim pouch various emergency patches. "I need you to squeeze Sir Tiriel's hand if you can hear me." She ignores the blood that stains her gloves as she deftly moves over the woman's body, trying to stymie the blood that as pooled on the snow under the supine body. She is not desperate, she is not worried, there is nothing but calm around her. Her aura has completely lapsed into her body once more.

With his blade held steady, Cynan has little trouble blocking the Hostile scout's weapon as it comes down, bringing the tip of the bastard sword up and around to parry the blow. It's an effective maneuver, one that leaves the Hostile off-balance and vulnerable to two more incoming Havenite weapons… and when it's already crumpling to its knees, the bastard sword driving through its chest seals the matter entirely. Silently Cynan pulls his weapon free and turns to move toward the single remaining scout.

Now the work is as much keeping room for friendlies as it is destroying Hostiles, and Anabethe's suit AI pings directionally as each of the other fighters around her dodge in and out. Light on her feet despite the ice, she ducks and weaves around the rest of the fighters, her greater reach giving her a chance to strike at the Hostile's chest while others are in close. A twist of her wrist rips away some of the Hostile armor.

When Brie is able to get a lucky hit in and she looks over to see Ronan assisting, she offers a smile, "Thanks.." Not allowing herself time to rest yet, she goes for the other one near them. The one that seems to be attacking Erik still. «You angered him badly… Sir Erik.» Comming to him.

A fist-sized ball of fire coalesces in front of Nitrim, drawing in the heat from his serpentine aura. As the air starts to crackle around it, the ball suddenly rockets forward and connects with the Hostile's face in a spray of fire and the smell of burning skin. Leaving a trail of calf-deep snow tracks behind him, he tracks the sword in the snow as he comes to a stop behind the line of knights. He looks up to the thing's massive face and reaches out, palm extended and fingers splayed, towards it.

As the Hostile continues to withdraw, Percival gives a last few thrusts toward it, but the now-defensive enemy turns it aside readily enough. Finally, he ceases his pursuit. There are many Havenites on the creature, and his own blows are helping little enough.

The hostile doesn't go down. But she cannot wait any longer, and so Una turns to join Tiriel, Devon, and her mother. Dropping beside the three as Tiriel stands to defend the small group as necessary, she takes up her mother's hand from Tiriel and looks into Lady Iah's eyes. A silent look passes between the two before she looks up to Devon, searching the other woman's face for any signs of what to expect. Though she continues to cling to hope, her eyes are desperate. She knows a mortal wound when she sees one, but Devon's calm gives her something, however small, to cling to.

Starting to recover from the earlier blow, Ronan thrusts his blade into the arm of the Hostile, just as Brienne and Cynan likewise bury their weapons into the Hostile. As the enemy falls, Ronan yanks his blade back, sliding across the edge of the emitted shield. All in one motion he turns and thrusts the blade at the last Hostile that is in his vicinity, along with Brienne and Cynan.

Flint buries his mace deep in the Hostiles chestplate, the weapon tearing off metal as he pulls it off. The Grantham is still wordless. He wants this thing dead. There's another, this time working in conjunction with Nitrim's own attack. This time, he means to finish the damn off. Still, he plans on burining. Or maybe throwing it into The Pit's many smelters. Turn him into a nice paperweight.


The Large hostile continue's it's retreat, now a ways past even the embattled scouts when suddenly it vanishes. It takes a moment to clue in on exactly what happened, but only just. It appears to have dissapeared down the entrance to a snow cavern, a vertical drop some distance down before opening into what would appear to be, to the observer above, an ice cave. While possible to descend, it would take a bit of time.


Victor misses the hostile's head, although he does catch its left arm with a crunch of metal tearing into metal. The Khourni starts to step forward, only for his AI to throw up a bright red wire-frame of the crevasse. Vic pulls up, his feet sliding in the snow before his spiked boots catch on a chunk of ice and stop him. "Fuck!" It's more surprised than angry, and he adds, "There's a cavern here!" Turning his attention inward, he adds, "Vera, bring up friendly force dispositions in this area."

Devon, having caused her visor to go translucent, is able to meet Una's gaze easily as she continues to work on Lady Iah's wounds. She odes not betray anything as she continues to tirelessly work. She is doing all she can, but the Lady starts to choke on her own blood. "Lady Iah…" Devon keeps repeating, hoping to keep her focused as she tries to clear that blood, tries to get her breathing going again, though her brows furrow deeply. "Have medical support be called?"

Una's lips remain pressed together, the tiniest widening of her eyes betraying her own emotions as things appear to take a turn for the worse. A touch to her helmet controls connects her to her sister and the medical team. A few seconds later she nods, "They are coming, yes."

The Ash Knight's mace swing catches nothing but empty air where the Hostile once was, as it vanishes downward. There's just a vocalized snort from Flint's external sperakers. "Coward." he grunts. "Thanatos, mark current area for possible Hostile nest. Notify Knight-Lieutenant of the possibilty the Hostiles are underground." Then he's moving for that last one, but it's likely it'll already be dead by the time he gets to it.

Nitrim comes to a stop beside Victor and Flint, looking down into the chasm as the Hostile disappears into it. "That bastard…" His lips close and his cheeks turn until he spits down the chasm after the thing. He glances over his shoulder to the remaining combatants and then turns to look down the chasm. His aura flares once more and the rumble from his voice suddenly amplifies, powered to a loud, angry BOOM by his Awakened strength. "GROUND. INTO. ASHES." He calls down to the retreating hostile, voice returning to normal. Wincing, he pulls his scarf back into place and starts away from the ledge. Because…crevasse.

Steel pings against steel, and Anabethe waits for a chance to bury her halberd in the fifth Hostile's chest before stepping back out of range once more. It's finished for the monster, and there are other things to see to. Like her brother and Victor. She moves carefully over the gore-spattered snow, searching them out to make sure they're not on the ground.

Victor looks down the cavern walls for a long moment, then slowly steps back, glancing over his shoulder to watch the others disassemble the remaining scout, then he puts in, "We're the only forces in this section of the line until the shieldwall from camp arrives." As he steps back, he reaches out with one hand, trying to put it on an undamaged part of Nitrim's chest to draw him back from the cliff's edge, "You need to get somewhere warm, 'Trim." Once more, he's on the full push to everyone in the area, "The rest of us need'ta hold until reinforcements get here." And then he realizes that there's at least one Head of House present, and he clears his throat, "I suggest we hold here 'till relieved."

Determination replaces anything else she may be feeling at the moment, and Brienne narrows her gaze on the last remaining Hostile near her, she manages a deep wound to its head, just before stabbing her polearm into the ground to brace herself from falling over. As the others finish it off completely she nods towards them, "Well done.." weary though, she clutches her hand to her armor, just trying to remain upright.

Cynan is not, by any means, an adrenaline-based fighter, but there's still a bit of a rush that comes with being in battle, and it's one that goes away in a hurry. His attack on the final scout is almost an afterthought, the Hostile crumpling under a series of Havenite blows, and even before he's returned the sword to his back, he's starting to notice things. The pain in his left arm, for instance, and the fact that the battlefield is very much littered with the remnants of the battle. Behind his helmet, he lets out a little sigh and, if only for a few moments, closes his eyes, standing quite still.

Much like the corpse before, the last Hostile finds the attention of Ronan, Brienne, and Cynan. Sir Ronan blade slides through the Hostile's wrist. Had he survived the massive damage that awaited him at the hands of Cynan and Brienne he would have most likely lost that hand. Once he pulls his blade, he looks around. No hostiles remain standing. It is then that they emotionally numb, Ronan makes his way to where his mother's body lies on the ground. He yanks his helm off as he kneels beside her, "Mother?"


There certainly is a downside to extremely loud shouting in an icy world such as this.. and that's the risk of Avalanches. Perhaps fortunately there are no mountains in the immediate vicinity to rain snowy-death down on the heroes as Nitrim /booms/ out. With the remaining Hostiles defeated, it's perhaps a sobering realization that the mustered armsmen have not arrived yet, infact displays would show them a minute or two out, with medevac just behind them, given the scouring wind, tracking would have been nearly impossible had the brave nobles not rushed out. Examination of the ice-cave shows that there is some evidence of the tunnel the Hostile dissapeared down into, having been climbed up recently… and being behind the lines as it is, who can say that this was the first group of hostiles to make use of it.


Something about the way Lady Iah's body tapers into stillness, her eyes locked on the morning's sky, tells Devon that it is done. She presses her fingers tightly against her throat, trying to feel for that pulse that had been fluttering and shallow before. She waits for several long moments before she lifts her glass-colored eyes to meet Una's. "I'm… I'm sorry," she says as her gaze seems to quiver a bit. "I'm sorry, but… she's gone…" And there's a beat pause. "She's gone, Lady Iah."

Flint stands for a long moment at the cliff's edge just looking doward, even as Nitrim screams something down it. There's a sniff. Suddenly, his mace retracts into itself, small enough to set back into it's holster, clicking into it's proper spot. "You did damn, Nitirm." he asies over his should and walking away from the hole. "We'll get you trained up yet into a damn fine knight with those abilities." He stops short at seeing Devon with Lady Iah, and heads on over. The first thing he does is goes to his knees next to Devon. And at that point, he prays. A long litany of the dead to be taken to the Crone.

Watching Ronan, Brie approaches him and lifts own helmet off, squatting beside him. "Your mother?" Biting her lip, she gently pats his shoulder with her gauntlet covered hand. "I'm sorry, Sir.."

Una continues to hold her mother's hand, trying to keep believing that she might revive, that the color might return to her eyes. Its Devon's words that finally make it through to her. Her eyes close, her face going very still for a moment. When she opens her eyes again she nods to Devon, and with a carefully blank face arranges her mother's hands properly over her body. When this is done she looks up for Ronan.

"They've got gods." Nitrim murmurs, turning just enough to slide his sword into his scabbard. With one limp arm and a number of broken ribs, he lets Victor urge him away from the obvious danger, nodding in agreement. He doesn't have internal heating, and if he falls unconscious he will be left to the cold without his Awakened powers to warm him. His warm breath resumes, a more steady fog rising from his scarf. "Thank you, Sir Flint. I look forward to it. I am going to walk back to camp." He issues, and then starts out slowly in the direction from whence they came. As he walks, he presses his fist to his chest in a salute to Lord Cynan and thumbs his earbud. «Sister. Meet you back at camp. I need aid back there. Broken ribs, maybe the arm, too.»

Anabethe stops somewhere between the two groups, nodding to her brother. « Copy that, Nitrim. You did good. Time to get fixed up. » It's only then that she realizes there's a crack in her armor, frowning down at her left leg. "Damn," she mutters. « Going to have to watch someone's tape and see what I'm doing that's leaving my leg open. Meet everyone back at base. »

Devon looks up toward Flint as he joins her besides the slow-cooling body of the once Lady of Niveus. She says nothing to him for a moment, allowing Una the space she requires. When he does begin to pray, she bows her head to do the same. She murmurs to both the Crone and Sage, guardians of the dead. She does not regard those who are leaving, focused on this immediate task.

Victor reaches out to slow Nitrim's departure, "Not alone. You do that, you freeze your dick off, and you'll never screw a pretty girl again." He looks around the group, frowning slowly, then reads the tag placed by his AI, "Sir Brienne, you willin' to head back with Nitrim to meet the med-team?" At least, she looks wounded enough, with the big rent in her breastplate. Looking around the people praying and starting to head back, he snaps out, "The Hostiles came up from that cave, people… look alive. If they come back, we're all that's in the way."

Percival is already partway back from the scene of the main battle when the troops he called on arrive. He's lightly wounded beneath his armor, and so he doesn't hesitate to trudge back toward the medical unit while communicating with his own men. "The situation seems in hand. Resume standby positions until further notice from the perimeter."


The heroes of the day do not have to wait too much longer, before the men at arms rallied earlier arrive on scene to take up the sentry duty, as well as recover the bodies. In addition to the slain house Iah armsmen, and their Lady, there are several more Hostile corpses that the patrol was able to vanquish before getting overwhelmed.


Ronan is clutching his stomach. His blade is half buried in the snow beside him. His green eyes look at Una. He chews on his lower lip, making the already baby-faced knight look even more child-like. He flinches as he stands up. He reaches down and picks up his blade, sheathing it. "The fallen need to be gathered and taken back for proper burial. Guards need to be set up here until these caverns can be dealt with diligence." Whether the words are to himself, Lady Iah, or just anyone around remains to be seen.

With a nod to her brother, Una stands. She looks to Tiriel, who carries out his suggestion to post guards while the medics take care of getting Lady Iah's body ready for transport. Moving to her brother's side, she slips an arom around his shoulders, "Lets get you looked at." Her voice is low, flat.

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