Dyr'a was still reeling with shock as Gorm drew his final breaths. It had been more by instinct than design that she had thrown herself out of the path of destruction. She half-scrambled, half-crawled up a few more steps before regaining her feet.

By now the Guild mages were beginning to notice her, to ask questions that she only vaguely heard through the noise of the fight.

"Come, hurry!" Dyr'a called, motioning with her arm. People! They thought they had so much time on their hands. Every minute that they were here was another minute that reinforcements could come... like those presently arriving.

Finally reaching the top of the stairs, she literally ran into a very surprised guard, who was on his rounds in the corridor. Quick thrusts from her knives - one to the throat, the other sneaking up under his breastplate - efficiently dispatched him.

Her pace down the hall toward the kitchens was not as fast as it had been going up. For one, she had to make sure that Master Vos was actually following her, and also her back was beginning to ache quite severely from the soldier who had dived at her. The fragile frame of a shvat meant that she would most likely have a gorgeous bruise there, come morning.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Vos also threw himself off to the side, the huge fireball raising blisters on the back of his neck from the close heat. The elf rolled to his feet and spun around, quickly surveying the scene behind him (Gorm's charred corpse), and then completed his turn surveying his own predicament.

Which was not good. His roll, while getting him out of the range of the fireball, threw him the farthest from the exit out of the entire group. Based on this hastilly gathered information, Vos decided on a fighting retreat. He more concentrated on parying and deflecting blows than scoring ones of his own, but he did manage to incapacitate a few guards. The sorcerer kept backing up until he reached the few around Gorm's body.

"While I agree that we should mourn for our rescuer, perhaps we should get out of here and mourn later!" he shouted angrily over the constant din of clashing steel as he wove a defensive cage around his body. Only a few of the guard's blades hit him, more due to luck than any skill on Vos's part as Gorm's body was near the stairs where the corridor narrowed so the guards crowded themselves trying to reach the escapees.

_________________
Four Gods wait on the windowsill,
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the Gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?

Now, three Gods wait on the windowsill
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
While black tongues lap at the spreading pool
And build the strength they need to rule.

Cirron started when he felt the hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Illaria, her mien one that could pass for compassion. Mutely he nodded, but there wasn't much time for palaver, as the next fireball singed his ear and exploded on the wall behind him. Time to go.

He scanned the corridor for his companions and sighted Dyr'a darting for the kitchens, the others close behind her. He made to follow her, but for a clash of steel behind him. There was the elven sorcerer, both blades whirring in blazes of silver. Vos wasn't too bad at that either, but the guards pressing in seemed all too resolved to remedy that in sheer numbers.

A bolt for the stairs took him right behind one adversary, and a hand chop to the jugular sent that same adversary sprawling, out cold. Cirron was just congratulating himself on the well aimed blow, before a hiss of steel over his head told him he should duck or risk decapitation. The guard reversed the stroke faster than he could imagine, and the sword slashed down again, cutting across the druid's shoulder. The wound wasn't deep, but it bled copiously with a jolt of pain, causing Cirron's staff to miss its next target.

A flash of steel behind him from a second guard. He spun, but with both shoulder and arm throbbing, he couldn't summon the strength to raise his staff quickly enough. He was saved by a thrust from Elexorien that ran clean through the guard's chest and out the other side. Pivot, whack, and Cirron finally took down the last guard.

"Shall we go, then?" he asked a bit rhetorically, as the fire elementalists were taking notice of them again. Without waiting for reply, he ducked a fireball and made a desperate charge up the stairs to catch up with the others.

_________________

Methadox hurriedly stamped out the fire that was threatening to spread across the hem of his robe. He'd never really liked fire elementalists, to be honest, regardless of which side they were on. They tended to be overly showy, in his opinion. Though, of course, the majority of his own abilities depended on creating a spectacle, so he supposed he couldn't criticize overmuch.

He (unsuccessfully) attempted yet again to summon enough of a shield to block an approaching fireball, but in the end a conveniently-placed guard took the brunt of the attack anyway. Whirling around, he stunned another guard with the a blow from the curved end of his staff, then quickly ended it with a slash of his dagger.

He'd never been much of one for hand-to-hand combat, Methadox reflected as he narrowly missed being removed of his head. In ordinary combat, he was usually able to simply slip away unnoticed or scare his foes senseless by conjuring an image of their words fears. Very rarely was he forced to engage his enemies up close as he was doing now. Of course, it was also very rare that he found himself thrown into a dungeon by his own superiors (though not unheard of) and stripped of his powers.

The others, he noted, had already for the most part disappeared up the stairs, presumably toward their escape (or their imminent demise; either was likely). Gritting his teeth and doing his best to block out the protests from his now-throbbing leg, Methadox dispatched of one last guard and sprinted after the others.

Dyr'a, halfway through the door to the kitchens, pauses when she heard her name being screamed. Ah, yes. Illaria, forty meters down the hall. She didn't know how she could have missed her, even in the chaos downstairs; the woman was extremely noticeable. And screaming.

Great move.

Dyr'a had always been slightly stiff around the older woman - partly contemptuous, partly jealous - but that didn't matter now. She waved an arm. "Yes, that's it, wake the fortress. Do come on!" The stragglers were beginning to catch up, thank the gods. Which ones, she wasn't sure, but leading these people was turning out to be no easy job, and not exactly what she had planned.

The apprentice passed through the scullery door - blazes! No, she hadn't planned on this at all. The entire group couldn't scale the wall.

Thank the gods, again, that she'd surveyed the castle before entering. Somewhere close by, there should be a garden door. She slipped off in search of it, pulling her lockpicks out of the pouch on her belt. Hopefully, she would have it open by the time the escapees deigned to emerge from the building.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

This was chaos, but apparently Maq's move to score 4 slashes with each saber on guards's heads -which made it quite bloody and messy- has worked. 4 for them, the unluckiest number, and 8 for Maq himself, the second luckiest number. Maq ignored the charred remains of what once had been a mage, and counted the stairs. The effort was repeatedly distracted for Maq to hit, block, and kill more guards, and he had to start a couple of times over again. But in the end he finished. 16 stairs. Maq bounded up, 2 stairs at a time. 4 stairs each for each leg. 4+4=8. Lucky number. It worked, because apparently the guards weren't coming for him. Great. Decapitating another guard as he passed by, he followed the group into a kitchen. Which, of course, reminded Maq that he was hungry. Which, of course, didn't help. Maq ignored the pangs of hunger plagueing him and bounded after the group. Outside. Into a garden. Oh, boy, this had better be good. Especially as there were surely more guards pursuing them. Plus they had no magic. What a great, unlucky day. Maq wished desperately for the sun to set so it would finally be the fifth, which was less unlucky that the 4th.

_________________

Airithnu was in the middle of the group, and she followed there new "leader" or "rescuer" as she lead them out of this hell hole. She tried to injure as many of the gaurds as she could as she passed, without falling behind from the group. She sighed heavily, all from anger, tiredness, and frustration as she contiuned to follow.

_________________


Just became a college freshman; be on sparingly

Vos kept backing up, his blades barely keeping the guards at bay. His breath started to come in short, ragged gasps; despite his attempts to keep it as normal as possible. His arms became slick with blood; both his, from the numerous cuts and lacerations on them, and his enemies, more of their's than his, much more. The sorcerer would have liked to do nothing more than to turn tail and run, but the guards would follow and the fight would resume outside where they could be easily surrounded and cut off from any hope of escape they still had.

The elf backpedaled as fast as he dared, probably faster than he should have considering he couldn't spare a glance behind him to see where he was going; but to slow was to die, so he kept moving. He bumped into the stairs and had to bend over backwards to keep his balance; normally any break in a defense was fatal in combat, but this time it saved his life. A guard's saber flashed above his head, right where his neck used to be. Vos thrust with Elexorien straight throught the guard's chest cavity, but instead of pulleng the blade out instantly, the elf spared a second to glance around the room.

He was the last to reach the stairs; and, when he looked back he noticed that the stairs were only wide enough for one person at a time. Vos smiled, the blood on his face making that smile look slightly insane; and who knows, maybe the elf was insane. Keeping the guard's body on Elexorien, Vos backed up the stairs a fast as he could without tripping, his dagger working to parry whatever strikes the guards could get past the body between them.

_________________
Four Gods wait on the windowsill,
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the Gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?

Now, three Gods wait on the windowsill
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
While black tongues lap at the spreading pool
And build the strength they need to rule.

[hey, Doctor, you read my last post? my char came around to help]

Cirron followed Vos up the stairs and slipped through the kitchens, which still retained the appearance of former immaculacy despite the scattered cutlery and bloodstains on the floor. The few guards posted there had already been dispatched by his companions. Speaking of which, where were they? He'd seen them come up the stairs, through the door... Fighting his panic, he broke into a run, tripped over a frying pan, hurtled around the corner...

...and slammed into the sorcerer Vos. And the rest of the group, in fact. They all stood poised at the scullery door, as though waiting for something. Cirron tentatively peeked through a crack in the door and caught Dyr'a just as she was slipping outside. It looked like a courtyard of sorts, encased by walls. No sentries paced the battlements. He wondered how long their luck would hold.

_________________

Dyr'a's lips tightened, in frustration as well as annoyance. "Of course I know what I'm doing," she snapped back at Illaria.

She thrust another pick into the garden door's lock and cursed as it slipped out. Her hands were shaking, slick with sweat as she fumbled on the ground for the needle-thin pick. She put it down to shock. Sure, her father had trained her well in the finer points of silent violence. Applying it in a melee setting was a completely different story. And she had a spectator, which she never enjoyed.

This wasn't working. The apprentice was too high-strung and too nervous for the calm, stoic challenge of the tumblers.

Right, then. There was more than one way to play this game. Not as pretty, perhaps, but effective.

Laying her hand on the planks around the lock, she let the feeling of the wood grain seep into her fingers until they became the wood, fiber and weathered sap. A tightly-focused burst of sheer concentration wrenched the wood out, leaving a six-inch-diameter hole around the lock. She pulled it out, and the door swung free, clearing the way out of the castle to freedom.

No guards yet. From the deep shadow of the wall, Dyr'a waved at the group emerging from the kitchens, motioning them to hurry.

_________________


<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Airithnu had been standing in front of Vos when Cirron knocked him over. She too was knocked over, taken out by her knees. She quickly recovered, though, and offered a hand to both Vos and Cirron as the group was escaping.

_________________


Just became a college freshman; be on sparingly

Thankful for the freedom, Cirron stepped out from the courtyard. He wanted nothing more than to leave the oppressive shadow cast by the Wyrmlord's bastion, but quickening his pace on this precarious foothold was tantamount to suicide. The sunset did little to warm the barren mountain peaks and jagged palisades falling from the narrow path. It was bordered on one side by a cliff, atop which perched the fortress, and on the other side by a sheer drop to the rocks below, where lay a few skeletons, vestige of former fugitives and forgotten by the world. The druid shuddered and, bracing himself on his staff against the frigid wind threatening to knock him over, followed close behind Illaria.

That was before Illaria jerked and and murmured something under her breath. Alarmed, Cirron put a tentative hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?" The path only allowed room for single file, and he was the last one in line. Was it just his imagination, or was the wind waxing more frigid with every step...?

Shadows fell over them.

Cirron looked up in time to sight the winged monstrosities, hovering above them, silhouetted against the darkening skies. Slender and reptilian, they wheeled and shrieked their hatred. Scales glinted. Sunlight filtered through membranal wings. One of them uttered a fell screech and dove. He glimpsed talons raking for his head, before he brought his staff up, bringing it slamming upwards and across.

Suddenly mindless of the precarious mountain path, he cried to the others, "Run!"

_________________

Carlina, thankful for the escape Dyr'a provided, followed close behind her as they descended on the narrow mountain path. At first, Carlina thought it was fine. Compared to the events that had unfolded earlier, it would be fantastic but then someone behind her screamed, "Run!" amidst the shrieks of an unknown flying beast. Beasts, to be accurate.

Terribly alarmed, for a vampire, Carlina unhooked her crossbow from her back and began to load it. In her wanderings, she had never seen these creatures nor heard anything about them. She crouched behind a rock as she waited for one of those winged monsters to come into range. Then a giant roar that could not have come from the winged beasts. She peered over the rock to see a giant humanoid pick up Illaria with a hint of satisfaction and fascination. She must have done something to hurt him badly, thought Carlina because the beast lost his grip on her and moaned painfully. A short gasp escaped from Carlina's mouth as Illaria fell ten feet onto hard rock.

She sprang from behind the rock and stood defensively over Illaria, guarding her from the giant and the winged beast as she recovered from the fall.

_________________

I was cured all right.

[school's starting tomorrow so I won't be able to get on during the week if at all. just thought I should drop in and tell you. you don't have to wait for me. if you have any plot ideas, feel free.]

_________________

Adellis's immediate reaction to being set upon by monsters - the likes of which she couldn't put a name to - was to fling up her hands as one swooped low over her and run full-pelt as fast as she could. This worked rather well until she skidded to a halt, almost falling, and felt her gaze fall down, down, down to a dizzying height. Arms windmilling to keep her balance, the slight, unarmored and completely weaponless half-elf whirled to find a hideous winged thing land behind her. Her hands flew to her mouth, indigo eyes huge and petrified and mind snatching hopelessly at the well of power beyond its reach.

It made a strange cawing sound and sprang forward, towards her. Even as she stepped back and felt only air beneath her foot, Adellis was aware of talons closing around her forearms where she'd instinctively flung them up to protect her head. The next moment she was in air, terrifyingly aware of the sheer drop below. Even so, it was beyond her to control her wild, spasmic attempts to break free. The creature dropped several feet through air and this time Adellis screamed, a high keening cry.

A violent jerk of her arms and talons loosened with a squawk. Adellis curled herself into a ball as they let go, knowing she was dead - dead -

Rock knocked the wind so completely out of her that colors and stars swam before her eyes, tear-filled in her efforts to gulp air. Adellis forced herself upright and the world spun. She stumbled and nearly fell, catching herself on a low point of rock. Something sparkling and white glittered in her peripheral vision and Adellis turned groggily, reaching out to touch it.

BOOM. Something hit her with such force that she stumbled and fell to her hands and knees, clinging to consciousness by only a thread. Slowly her vision cleared, and with it came that relentless clawing for the power she couldn't reach.

Except she could. Adellis stared at the white flame dancing from her fingertips and whirled, looking from the smooth point of crystal-tipped rock to the cliff above, where the rest were still fighting for their lives. This would give them their powers back!

"I found it!" she shrieked, hurling a globe of white lighting at the nearest monster and screeching at the top of her voice. "Look! Down here!"

_________________

(@ Ellie: Dyr'a is actually five. Due to the short lifespan of the shvat this is roughly equivalent to twenty.)

At the cry of Run!" Dyr'a scrambled for cover, no questions asked. As the enormous black shadows swooped low, obsuring the dying sun, she found a space behind a boulder that offered reasonable shelter while she strung her recurve bow. Nocking an arrow to the string, the sorcerer's apprentice drew it back to her ear, aiming for the chest of one of the half-human monstrosities.

She reconsidered. Taking the reptilian hide into account, her arrow would probably just bounce off. Dyr'a retargeted, sighting on an eye, and loosed. Her arrow hung from the eye, dangling like a splinter with pretentions to lethality. Bad.

Now what? She couldn't give her arrows any more force than was in her bow and arm .... Unless... Dyr'a squinted through the clouds of cliffside dust that the creatures' wings had raised. Drew, fired, at the eye again. With a thought, she ripped open the air in front of the arrow, straight to the eye. The weapon rushed forward into the vacuum ten times as fast as it had traveled before, the air behind filling with a small thunderclap. The arrow dove into the eye.

Dyr'a didn't see what happened next. The half-elven woman screamed something about power - she had somehow ended up further down the cliff - and most of the company scrambled to hear her. Dyr'a was about to follow, but her plans were interrupted.

With a feral wail that must have wakened the dead in six nations, another of the dragonspawn dug its talons into her exposed back. It had made its dive while her attention had been elsewhere, and now she screamed, loud and long; half in sheer pain, half in absolute terror, and completely in surprise as the ground dropped away, the creature's claws buried in her back.

_________________


<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>