75th of Frost, 4621
The shot traveled through Raphael's neck, a glancing blow to the side. It wasn't nearly what Arkash had meant to do, but it sufficed.
A cry of pain saw the Veir fall back and clutch his neck as he stumbled to the window. His wings dissipated while he squeezed the wound there, and Arkash shakily got to his feet. His own bleeding had slowed significantly, but his blood magic was waning in ways he didn't understand. All the might a sacrifice should have commanded was reduced to nothing more than a pebble.
His breathing quickened, and his head became light. Raphael was injured, but there was a fight in him yet. Arkash saw the crescent blades on his arm and readied his sword as he stepped back toward the door. In a wounded fit of rage, Raphael flung his next Shadowrend volley at him. The first, he cut through, the second he smashed to the side, and the third he just deflected enough for it to catch his arm and rip its way through. Arkash turned and slashed through the projectile on its second round, then bolted out of the room as a second volley of dark spears ripped through the doorway and the wall both.
Arkash hadn't even seen it, but the mage had prepared those black wings again, he'd made the right call in fleeing.
He fled to the staircase, where Halamire were lined up in formation, ready to intercept him.
With one arm to hold his side together, Arkash met the Halamire'd blade, cut through it, then slashed a half-foot deep into the Halamire's chest. A razor began to form in the man's breastplate, but only pushed through enough to cut the knight in half. Arkash's razor was normally enough to cut through several targets. Something was very wrong.
As the man Arkash had cut through fell, he found that the knights behind him were primed with rifles. The front-row knight screamed in rage at the death of his comrade and ran forward to lop his head off. Arkash ducked and drove his sword all the way through the Halamire's stomach. Weakened, he engaged his dranoch strength to maneuver the knight's body in the way of the rifle shots, threw him to the floor with a heave, then dove at the knights in the stairwell before they could even draw their sidearms.
Tooth and claw, blood and bone, Arkash cut and bit through mortal flesh in an excessive and vibrant spatter of gore that painted to the narrow chamber of the staircase.
He used the confusion and short-sightedness of the knights, as well as the narrow space to cut through the first couple of rows, and had blocked off the staircase with a barricade of broken bodies. Arkash tried to summon a Bile construct from the formation, but all his mark managed was the tightening and compression of the corpses. It was enough, he just had to find another way out.
He began to climb the staircase again, slipped on the blood that coated the stone stairs, picked himself back up, and began his ascent. As Arkash emerged from the gore-spattered doorway, he saw Raphael, holding his neck just outside the door of his room. His wings were down, but the attempted lift was obvious. Was the mage also tired? Bleeding from the neck didn't help, he was sure. As if to prove him wrong, Raphael's wings shot up, and the surface again rippled like water.
Where could he go? It was a straight shot hallway, and he was certain Raphael could hit him wherever he went. He hadn't the time to think, so he threw himself for the wall shoulder first, and plummeted through the glass pane that was the window before he tumbled over the sill and beheld the enormous drop below him, fully surrendered to gravity. The thrash of spears behind him was all the affirmation he needed to know that he made the right choice.
Down a sheer brick wall, Arkash plummeted toward the ground. Various cuts from the glass littered his skin, but none damaged his sense, which was all that mattered. he navigated his body against the resistance of the air and drove his sword into the wall. The magically-enhanced blade cut through and began to split even more rock with the addition of his weight. It slowed his fall significantly, but Raphael had other ideas. near the ground, he was struck with a blast of kinetic force that dislodged him from the wall and set him falling some fifteen feet away from the brickwork of the fortress.
Well versed in acrobatics, Arkash tucked his head, loosened his body, and rolled across the ground before collapsing in a pile on the courtyard's grass. His sword fell into the ground beside him, stuck upright, still dripping dirtied blood.
There was no time to lay around, as knights readied their crossbows on the fortress walls. Shaky, Arkash pushed himself from the floor and wearily caught himself with his feet. The first of the crossbow bolts landed before him, where he'd just been laying. Briefly, he looked in the direction of the source, then snatched his sword and made a break for the storm drain as more bolts began to trail behind him.
He used the Fortress's own walls for cover; the structure was designed to keep threats out, not assault what was already inside. From there, his escape was easy. He cut through the bars of the storm drain and tried again to harden the blood in his side wound, but found little to no luck. With an exhausted sigh, he lowered to all fours, crawled under the wall, rolled across the grass and threw himself off the cliff edge to the waiting waters below.
Some distance between himself and the cliff face was made so that he didn't hit the rocks at the bottom. The water, having only just met the light of the sun, was cold. It was a shock to his system that quickly roused him from his wounded stupor. He held his breath while he stayed suspended in water, then assumed his true form as he sheathed his sword so that the dark of his scales could blend into the river bed with greater ease. Still holding his body together, he looked in the direction of the cliff face and pulled his form closer in a motion that could best be described as crawling on the water, but he founder greater efficiency when his fingers were clasped. It took some effort, but when he arrived, he quietly resurface and clung to the edge of the cliff.
The waters ran by him as he peered up at the Fortress ramparts from a different angle than he had been when he jumped. he saw the Halamire rushing about, looking for his body. They wouldn't find him. Arkash sighed deeply, and let the cool running water steal the heat from his body in an effort to slow his bleeding. Again, he attempted his magic, just to close the wound with hardened blood, but instead of success, he found a phantom grip on his heart, squeezing and pushing against his lungs in the same motion. It stilled his breath and filled his head with immense pressure while he clung to the crag... and then, as soon as it had appeared, it was gone.
Arkash didn't know what was wrong with him, what had happened, or when the mark of Nightfall would surface on his form, but he was alive. Chewed up and spat out from the clutches of the fortress, Arkash quietly pulled his body to the shore, beached himself, and caught his breath while the sun counteracted the good work of the water. Head hung low, he resisted the urge to cry out in pain as he reached for his wounded, ragged side. He'd all but been split open, a horrific gash to bare his insides to the world, and without the rush of combat to dull his pain, Arkash found bitter agony.
Teary-eyed, he collected his sword from the sand and climbed to his feet. He made his way to town, and quietly boarded the next boat out of Valtoria. Carried away under the noses of the Veir and his dogs, Arkash eventually resurfaced in The Imperial Badlands. Every attempt to use his magic only brought him unimaginable pain and congestion in his chest. Part of him knew that he'd failed, that he was doomed to die to organ failure, but he didn't heed it more than a passing thought. He was just injured, the initiation was a little butchered from all the fighting and blood magic he'd done after drinking the Umbralplasm. It would come back in time, he just had to be patient.
Under the warmth of the desert sun, Arkash wandered through the dunes. He knew his way to Amoren, he thought. Taelian was there, and without his resonator, the only way he could reach the man was walking.
He'd hopefully get lucky and find something to eat on the way and that would sustain him. It would keep him alive.
The further he walked into the blistering heat, the harder he tried to convince himself that he wasn't going to die, that he would survive the journey, the wound, and the initiation proper. It wasn't his time to die, he couldn't die like that. He'd done too much and had come too far to perish after a fight, not while his opponent still lived. With naught but his stubborn grit, tenacity, and his Iron Will to Survive, Arkash pushed onward.
The shot traveled through Raphael's neck, a glancing blow to the side. It wasn't nearly what Arkash had meant to do, but it sufficed.
A cry of pain saw the Veir fall back and clutch his neck as he stumbled to the window. His wings dissipated while he squeezed the wound there, and Arkash shakily got to his feet. His own bleeding had slowed significantly, but his blood magic was waning in ways he didn't understand. All the might a sacrifice should have commanded was reduced to nothing more than a pebble.
His breathing quickened, and his head became light. Raphael was injured, but there was a fight in him yet. Arkash saw the crescent blades on his arm and readied his sword as he stepped back toward the door. In a wounded fit of rage, Raphael flung his next Shadowrend volley at him. The first, he cut through, the second he smashed to the side, and the third he just deflected enough for it to catch his arm and rip its way through. Arkash turned and slashed through the projectile on its second round, then bolted out of the room as a second volley of dark spears ripped through the doorway and the wall both.
Arkash hadn't even seen it, but the mage had prepared those black wings again, he'd made the right call in fleeing.
He fled to the staircase, where Halamire were lined up in formation, ready to intercept him.
With one arm to hold his side together, Arkash met the Halamire'd blade, cut through it, then slashed a half-foot deep into the Halamire's chest. A razor began to form in the man's breastplate, but only pushed through enough to cut the knight in half. Arkash's razor was normally enough to cut through several targets. Something was very wrong.
As the man Arkash had cut through fell, he found that the knights behind him were primed with rifles. The front-row knight screamed in rage at the death of his comrade and ran forward to lop his head off. Arkash ducked and drove his sword all the way through the Halamire's stomach. Weakened, he engaged his dranoch strength to maneuver the knight's body in the way of the rifle shots, threw him to the floor with a heave, then dove at the knights in the stairwell before they could even draw their sidearms.
Tooth and claw, blood and bone, Arkash cut and bit through mortal flesh in an excessive and vibrant spatter of gore that painted to the narrow chamber of the staircase.
He used the confusion and short-sightedness of the knights, as well as the narrow space to cut through the first couple of rows, and had blocked off the staircase with a barricade of broken bodies. Arkash tried to summon a Bile construct from the formation, but all his mark managed was the tightening and compression of the corpses. It was enough, he just had to find another way out.
He began to climb the staircase again, slipped on the blood that coated the stone stairs, picked himself back up, and began his ascent. As Arkash emerged from the gore-spattered doorway, he saw Raphael, holding his neck just outside the door of his room. His wings were down, but the attempted lift was obvious. Was the mage also tired? Bleeding from the neck didn't help, he was sure. As if to prove him wrong, Raphael's wings shot up, and the surface again rippled like water.
Where could he go? It was a straight shot hallway, and he was certain Raphael could hit him wherever he went. He hadn't the time to think, so he threw himself for the wall shoulder first, and plummeted through the glass pane that was the window before he tumbled over the sill and beheld the enormous drop below him, fully surrendered to gravity. The thrash of spears behind him was all the affirmation he needed to know that he made the right choice.
Down a sheer brick wall, Arkash plummeted toward the ground. Various cuts from the glass littered his skin, but none damaged his sense, which was all that mattered. he navigated his body against the resistance of the air and drove his sword into the wall. The magically-enhanced blade cut through and began to split even more rock with the addition of his weight. It slowed his fall significantly, but Raphael had other ideas. near the ground, he was struck with a blast of kinetic force that dislodged him from the wall and set him falling some fifteen feet away from the brickwork of the fortress.
Well versed in acrobatics, Arkash tucked his head, loosened his body, and rolled across the ground before collapsing in a pile on the courtyard's grass. His sword fell into the ground beside him, stuck upright, still dripping dirtied blood.
There was no time to lay around, as knights readied their crossbows on the fortress walls. Shaky, Arkash pushed himself from the floor and wearily caught himself with his feet. The first of the crossbow bolts landed before him, where he'd just been laying. Briefly, he looked in the direction of the source, then snatched his sword and made a break for the storm drain as more bolts began to trail behind him.
He used the Fortress's own walls for cover; the structure was designed to keep threats out, not assault what was already inside. From there, his escape was easy. He cut through the bars of the storm drain and tried again to harden the blood in his side wound, but found little to no luck. With an exhausted sigh, he lowered to all fours, crawled under the wall, rolled across the grass and threw himself off the cliff edge to the waiting waters below.
Some distance between himself and the cliff face was made so that he didn't hit the rocks at the bottom. The water, having only just met the light of the sun, was cold. It was a shock to his system that quickly roused him from his wounded stupor. He held his breath while he stayed suspended in water, then assumed his true form as he sheathed his sword so that the dark of his scales could blend into the river bed with greater ease. Still holding his body together, he looked in the direction of the cliff face and pulled his form closer in a motion that could best be described as crawling on the water, but he founder greater efficiency when his fingers were clasped. It took some effort, but when he arrived, he quietly resurface and clung to the edge of the cliff.
The waters ran by him as he peered up at the Fortress ramparts from a different angle than he had been when he jumped. he saw the Halamire rushing about, looking for his body. They wouldn't find him. Arkash sighed deeply, and let the cool running water steal the heat from his body in an effort to slow his bleeding. Again, he attempted his magic, just to close the wound with hardened blood, but instead of success, he found a phantom grip on his heart, squeezing and pushing against his lungs in the same motion. It stilled his breath and filled his head with immense pressure while he clung to the crag... and then, as soon as it had appeared, it was gone.
Arkash didn't know what was wrong with him, what had happened, or when the mark of Nightfall would surface on his form, but he was alive. Chewed up and spat out from the clutches of the fortress, Arkash quietly pulled his body to the shore, beached himself, and caught his breath while the sun counteracted the good work of the water. Head hung low, he resisted the urge to cry out in pain as he reached for his wounded, ragged side. He'd all but been split open, a horrific gash to bare his insides to the world, and without the rush of combat to dull his pain, Arkash found bitter agony.
Teary-eyed, he collected his sword from the sand and climbed to his feet. He made his way to town, and quietly boarded the next boat out of Valtoria. Carried away under the noses of the Veir and his dogs, Arkash eventually resurfaced in The Imperial Badlands. Every attempt to use his magic only brought him unimaginable pain and congestion in his chest. Part of him knew that he'd failed, that he was doomed to die to organ failure, but he didn't heed it more than a passing thought. He was just injured, the initiation was a little butchered from all the fighting and blood magic he'd done after drinking the Umbralplasm. It would come back in time, he just had to be patient.
Under the warmth of the desert sun, Arkash wandered through the dunes. He knew his way to Amoren, he thought. Taelian was there, and without his resonator, the only way he could reach the man was walking.
He'd hopefully get lucky and find something to eat on the way and that would sustain him. It would keep him alive.
The further he walked into the blistering heat, the harder he tried to convince himself that he wasn't going to die, that he would survive the journey, the wound, and the initiation proper. It wasn't his time to die, he couldn't die like that. He'd done too much and had come too far to perish after a fight, not while his opponent still lived. With naught but his stubborn grit, tenacity, and his Iron Will to Survive, Arkash pushed onward.
