HuntingTheLallocs
Kenjarek and his sister end the dinner with as much speed as is politic, considering how quickly they want to depart. The Baroness gives them as much information as she has - the slavers are led by the Lalloc "brothers," at least two and possibly as many as four Fair Folk, and they may have a few mortal followers. There are between thirty and forty captives, including many women and children. A small contingent of Dari's militia will be waiting outside the Sindrad to guide the Dragon-Blooded to the slavers' camp within an hour. From there it is presumed they will follow the trail on their own.
Kenlasha, as they are walking back to the camp: "So the question is, brother, how much we want to allow ourselves to be slowed down. The two of us could make great speed through rough ground at night were we alone, but bringing along even our best trackers will slow us down somewhat. I have only three or four likely-looking fellows to try on a mission like this." Still, she looks excited at the prospect of some action.
Kenjarek chuckes at Kenlasha's obvious enthusiam. "I understand your eagerness, sister, but I am somewhat concerned that we will be facing up to four Fair Folk of unknown power, so I feel we would be well advised to exercise some caution. Still, less than 20 mortal soldiers may not make a huge difference under the circumstances. Hmm...I suggest we have our trackers set out as well, but that you and I should range ahead and scout out the enemy camp. If we need the backup we can wait for them to catch up. Otherwise we deal with them ourselves. It should provide some amusement either way."
Roughly half an hour later by the movement of the moon, Kenjarek and his sister are outside the Sindrad with their scouts, waiting for the local militia (who, as Kenlasha observes wryly, were perhaps not expecting to be roused at mess time by some visiting Dynasts, and can perhaps be forgiven a certain lack of punctuality). Kenlasha is wearing her exquisitely crafted and brown-and-green laquered breastplate, with matching sword at her side and her jade bow Thorn Dragon on her back. Aside from this, she is equipped (as are the scouts) for quick, stealthy travel, with knee-high soft leather boots and a dun-colored cloak.
A reasonably short time later, five escorts from the local militia arrive - hardy-looking local boys with short swords and buff jackets. They nervously salute and apologize for their lateness. It does not seem too surprising that a few Fair Folk drove off twenty of them. They lead the Dynasts (about an hours' journey through wheat fields and into the rough, scrubby ground to the southwest of Dari) to the slavers' camp where the recent battle took place; the buzzing of flies on corpses attests to the number of dead. The militia boys plead a need to dispose of the corpses and nervously point Kenjarek and Kenlasha in the direction the slavers went; it's a rather obvious trail at any rate, even in the pale light of the half moon. They were obviously making no attempt at stealth, though whether through arrogance or simple numbers one could not say.
Kenjarek is less than impressed by the local troops, but there's no time to worry about that now. He turns to them and speaks in a matter of fact tone. "Yes, take care of the dead. We don't want their spirits to become restless, do we? We'll take care of the slavers. Just be ready to handle the captives."
The boy bows, saluting with his fist to his forehead in the manner of Bekla. "Yes, my lord."
Kenjarek and his sister set off in the dark, their scouts in tow but soon falling behind as Kenlasha invokes the charm of the Wild-Wandering Forester and the two Dynasts speed ahead. In truth, it is an easy enough trail to follow, even in the silvery light of the half-moon, and they make good time, covering perhaps fifteen miles before the sun rises. They allow their men a one-hour break to rest and eat before setting off again as the morning mists begin to burn off. The land is fairly hilly, with a good covering of scrub brush, yellow now at the height of the dry season, and the occasional small tree.
The day becomes quite hot as the sun rises, and the trackers have to slow their pace somewhat for the sake of the mortals. The sun is high in the sky when they come to the place where the slavers apparently made their camp the night before, and they stop there for a mid-day meal and rest. "They must indeed be moving slowly," reckons Kenlasha. "If we're lucky, we may reach them by nightfall."
Indeed, the trail becomes fresher and fresher as the day progresses, and they slow their pace so as not to overtake the group by mistake. Finally, as night begins to fall, our heroes begin to come across signs that the slavers passed by less than an hour before; they must be quite nearby.
Kenlasha turns to Kenjarek, talking now in a low voice. "Well, brother, how shall we go about this?"
He stares forward for a few seconds thinking, then turns toward Kenlasha. "They have mortals with them and not expecting opposition so they'll probably stop for the night. I suggest the two of us move in, scout their camp out, try to take out any guards silently so we can free the slaves and deal with the leaders." He starts to feel the adrenaline pumping at the prospect of combat and doesn't bother hiding a slightly feral grin. "Our soldiers will stay back in a concealed position ready to handle the prisoners and possibly ambush any opposition if we give the signal. I'm hoping you and I can take on the Wyldlings separately instead of taking them all on at once, but we'll have to be prepared for anything."
The two move cautiously forward in the failing light, and in a short time they get their first glimpse of the slavers' camp - there is no fire, so they can see little but huddled forms in the orange light of the setting sun. After a quick look at the lay of the land, Kenlasha gestures that they should move around to their right, where a low rise will allow them to get a view of the entire camp. There is no sign of sentries, and they move fairly quickly up behind the rise and find a well-covered position to observe the camp.
The terrain is small, steeply-rolling hills with long grasses and a few short, stunted, thorny trees. The camp is in a bit of a hollow, with their hill on one side and another slightly lower one to the left (although the terrain is hilly enough there's no extended line of sight in any direction in the failing light).
About thirty people of varying ages are huddled in a few groups, some of them apparently finishing off handfuls of some sort of food. They are in quite a state, not too surprising since they have been traveling more quickly than they are probably used over rough ground for several days, probably without much to eat. They look quite miserable, exhausted and dirty, but most of all simply terrified. Three young men with clubs, apparently hardly in better condition than the slaves themselves, walk watchfully between the groups of slaves, and an older man with a bow sits beneath a nearby tree, watching the whole group. Kenlasha looks at her brother with a slight frown as she draws Thorn Dragon from her back: none of four have any of the telltale traits of the Fair Folk.
Kenjarek raises an eybrow and adopts a somewhat confused expression. "Just four thugs? This doesn't seem right. Maybe they are overconfident and the rest of them off somewhere else. It also could be a trick of some sort. Regardless, I doubt they aren't expecting to deal with Dragon-Blooded nobles of the Realm and I think it's time we showed them the error of their ways. Alright, let's move in low and quiet towards where the prisoners are being kept. Keep an eye on the man with the bow, he may be the one in charge."
He uses his Gem of Night Vision so he can get a clear view, crouches down and slips in amongst the tall grass moving like a shadow between the blades towards the enemy camp. He manages to move up to within 10 or 20 feet of the camp without being seen - there is a tense moment as one of the thugs pauses and looks his way suspiciously for a few seconds, but Kenjarek stays quiet and the guard loses interest and moves on.
Kenjarek pauses and tries to figure out which of these jabronis is the furthest away from the central camp. Then he uses hand signals to let 'Lasha know he wants her to cover him. As the captives begin to fall asleep, the thugs quit moving among them in favor of setting up a loose picket around the camp - the man with the bow remains under the tree, and Kenjarek's enhanced vision shows clearly that he is keeping a watchful eye on them. After an hour or so passes, though, he appears to nod off and the Dynast takes the chance to act.
Flowing like a moonshadow on the water, he moves to within a few feet of the guard farthest away from the camp - he's completely unaware of the Dragon-Blood's presence until he is grabbed. He reacts surprisingly quickly to the attack, though, and almost manages to escape Kenjarek's clinch as he wrestles him to the ground. However, Kenjarek manages to get his arm across the boy's mouth before he cries out, and hold him down until he quits struggling, and then a little while longer for good measure.
Although the sounds of the scuffle seemed painfully loud to Kenjarek's ears, as he looks up it does not appear as if anyone has taken notice of the attack. He again waits a few minutes before an opportunity presents itself, and moves up towards a second thug. The third is only about three yards away, but Kenjarek is able to move in such a way that he isn't seen. Once again, he doesn't have any trouble sneaking up on the mortal unnoticed, but as Kenjarek swings his leg back to kick the mortal's legs out from underneath him, he hears the Exalt, letting out a shout and a curse as he tries to evade the kick. He doesn't, and there is a "thud" as the kick connects, but the thug manages to keep his feet. Then all hell breaks loose.
As the thugs go for their swords, the one Kenjarek attacked goes down with a spray of blood and an arrow through his throat, and the other drops almost simultaneously, clutching an arrow in his belly - Kenjarek gives a silent prayer to the Dragons that his sister was paying attention. The camp bursts into noise as most of the slaves panic, but the cries of alarm are almost immediately replaced by cries of terror and then sudden quiet at the same time as a palpable wave of fear washes over him - he's lost the element of surprise, and there are any number of Fair Folk nearby! The hard-bitten warrior is no stranger to the emotion, though, and has no trouble controlling it. He jumps to your feet and draws his daiklaive Sharktooth, which is now fairly humming in anticipation, to find himself faced only with campful of cowering slaves and a groaning youngster with an arrow through his guts. The man with the bow is nowhere to be seen.
At this point, we pause, as conventions of cinematic action require that Kenjarek walk purposely forward, seemingly in slow motion, outwardly unfazed by 'Lasha's rain of arrows and the blood spraying around around him, stepping almost casually over the writhing enemy on the ground in front of him, not even giving him a glance. The ancient arcane runes on Sharktooth's blade pulse with barely contained energy in his left hand, and Kenjarek reaches up with his empty right hand to brush a stray strand of hair away from his eyes.
Cutting back to real-time, he silently recites prayers of protection and thanks to the Immaculates, and activates his Gem of Youthful Suppleness. He runs forward towards the tree the leader was resting under, and leaps up in the air, grabbing onto a branch and supporting myself with his feet against the trunk. With the better vantage point, he scans around looking for the guy with the bow, but the only unusual thing is a deer out beyond the camp that he doesn't think was there a few minutes ago.
Kenjarek's attention is brought back to the camp, though, by a young mocking voice. "A Prince of the Earth. We are honored." One of the captured youths, a boy in rags of perhaps eleven, is moving toward you, holding a light stick in each hand. But, no, Kenjarek suddenly realizes that they're not sticks - they're wickedly-spiked clubs. The boy moves to attack. At the same time, Kenlasha begins moving down the hill towards the camp, running in a light crouch.
Kenjarek's expression changes to one of determination and anger. "Begone wyldling! These mortals are under Imperial protection." He kicks off from the tree, backflipping in mid-air, landing with legs wide in a fighting stance, then almost instinctively launching into much practiced katas with Sharktooth.
Before he can attack, the wyldling is on him with a feral snarl, swinging its clubs like a whirling dervish, leaving trails of lightly-sparkling orange in the night air after them. The Dynast moves Sharktooth to parry with a practiced backhand swing, but the fay's attack is too fast and he only manages to deflect the blow partially; he grunts as the blow connects with his shoulder armor, which fortunately manages to stop the blow.
He quickly moves to counter-attack, calling on Hesieh to guide his blow. The fay nearly dodges, but Kenjarek's practiced feints catch it off guard, and Sharktooth hums as it draws first blood, cutting into the foul creature's upper right arm, causing it to cry out.
The two move back to neutral positions again, and Kenjarek notices that the fay has grown several feet taller and sprouted antlers from its forehead. Its rags have lengthened and toughened as well, into a light brown buff jacket. "Well, well," it says, shifting its grips on its clubs. Kenjarek spares a quick glance at Kenlasha, and she seems to be readying to loose an arrow at the beast. He does his best to maintain a confident bearing despite his concern. "No matter what form it takes, I swear that your head will end up on a pike by time I am through with you!"
He maintains his defensive stance, circling his opponent, twirling Sharktooth around in practiced defensive katas, looking for a opening. Once again, however, he is surprised by the speed and ferocity of the beast's attack as it leaps towards him with a ululating howl, swinging both its clubs wildly, leaving more trails of faerie dust in the air. Kenjarek parries one attack effortlessly, but the fae seizes the resulting opening on his left with the other club, connecting just under his ribcage. His blessed grandfather's armor manages to stop most of the blow, but he shouts as one wicked spike finds a gap. It can't be a very deep wound, and although it is painful he has suffered and fought well with worse.
With a laugh the wyldling sprints to its right and leaps up onto the lowest branch of the tree, where it lands only a little unsteadily. "Second blood to me, Prince of the Earth!" it says, panting a little. "You'll not get my head so easily!" At the same time, Kenjarek hears his sister shout in surprise (not pain) - but as his back is now to the camp so he can keep the beast in the tree in his vision, he can't see what's going on. He forces a predatory smile. "'Easily?' That would take all the fun out of it."
Coiling like a snake, he gathers his strength, leaping up into the air, invoking the element of fire. Swinging his essence charged blade with both hands, in an upwards arc, he chops through the branch supporting the Faerie like a hot knife through butter. The wyldling tries to dodge the blow and is nearly successful as the attack was slowed somewhat by the tree branch, but Kenjarek connects, continuing the swing into its leg, sending up a shower of splinters, blood and leaves shaken loose by the force the blow; he feels a satisfying crunch as its left leg is broken. Using the momentum, he grabs onto another branch to try to bring himself up into the treetop, but his momentum is insufficient and he merely swings a few feet before dropping to the ground in a ready crouch. The fae looks frightened now, and has no taunt ready.
(Kenjarek hears a sudden sound of wind behind him, and his sister's voice - but in a way he's never heard it before. It is several octaves lower than usual, and the words she is intoning, which he cannot understand and somehow feel you don't want to, seem almost to tear at his ears like whipping thorny vines. Sorcery! He'd known she dabbled in it, but had no idea she had actually learned to use it.)
Focusing on the battle at hand, Kenjarek grits his teeth, trying to move in for a killing blow (or at least an incapacitating one). He charges at the faerie, then leaps in the air and spins at the same time time, whipping his blade around in a one handed roundhouse arc aimed at its neck, hoping for a decapitation. Hopping surprisingly gracefully on its one sound foot, however, the wyldling manages to evade the blow easily, twisting below Sharktooth's arc and then halfway around the tree, trying to keep as much of it as possible between the two of them.
(As the Dragon-Blood comes around to face the camp again, he sees that his sister's anima is in full flare, a ferocious wind of green-black holly leaves whipping around her and a pale greenish light illuminating the camp - most of the captives look frightened out of their wits, and there's a general scrambling movement away from the display. Green and brown bands of energy are winding their way around her hands, which she has raised in front of her in a defensive posture, forearms crossed; Thorn Dragon lies a few feet away in the grass. She is facing a fair one who looks like a twin of yours, down to its antlers and spiked clubs.)
When he lands he then quickly spins around, backing off and facing his opponent, bringing Sharktooth up in a defensive posture. The fae is watching him warily, still bouncing on one foot, but it looks more like it's looking for a way to escape than an attack opening. Before he can act, the wyldling shouts some arcane words, and Kenjarek hears a ripping sound as the tree's roots burst through the ground and begin wrapping themselves around his ankles. They are a hindrance, but are not too strong, and with a little effort he is able to tear himself free to make his attack.
Giving off a fearsome roar, he runs forward, grabbing the tree trunk with his right hand to use as a pivot point, the metal gauntlet grinding against the tree bark. He slides across the grass and sweeps out with his left leg, aiming for the knee of the faerie's injured leg. Despite the continuing interference from the writhing tree roots, he connects and it cries out, but just manages to keep its balance. To no avail, however, as Kenjarek's momentum carries him forward and he rolls over once, then comes up to a crouching position bringing Sharktooth in an overhand arc at the faerie, cutting into its shoulder with a spray of blood as it lets out a fearsome cry of pain and crumples at his feet. If it's not dead, it will be soon. He wipes the exess blood off his blade in the grass. "Be back for your head later."
As he wipes the blood from Sharktooth, Kenjarek looks up to see his sister complete her incantation, her hands suddenly growing and twisting into fearsome wooden claws with a horrible cracking sound. Her grunt of pain turns into a shout of fury as she attacks the beast facing her with a basic strike of the Five-Dragon Form, which it dodges fairly easily.
As he runs up to them, he sees a brief smile pass the wyldling's lips as it waits for an opening in his sister's form. She attacks, again executing a sinuous martial arts strike, leaping and whirling through a storm of holly leaves, her left hand - her left *talon* - aiming straight for the creature's heart. With a staccato clack of wood on wood, it tries to parry her blow, but her momentum and the skill of her attack see it through, tearing through its left shoulder.
It strikes back as she passes by, though, exploiting the opening left by her attack, but the only sound is the clash of its weapon against her armor. She lands on sure feet with a twist back to meet him, smiling slightly, skin glowing a deep brown, before she leaps to attack again, recovering faster than Kenjarek would have thought possible.
Her attack hits home again despite the faerie's attempt to dodge, this time ripping a chunk out of its right thigh. At the same time, Kenjarek reaches the melee. With his adrenaline pumping after his victory over the other fae, he charges at it, jumping and executing a flying double kick, attempting to slam it to the ground. It manages to dodge the kick handily, but as Kenjarek hits the ground he rolls with the momentum, coming up to a crouching position where the faerie stops. Twirling Sharktooth around to pick up momentum, he strikes out at the enemy's midsection, cutting deeply into its side. It cries out and stumbles to its left, dropping one of its clubs.
Looking to finish off the fae, Kenjarek and his sister try to take advantage of its momentary distraction by quickly moving in to attack. The fae stumbles slightly after the fullisade of attacks, and they are on it as it attempts to back away; it is far too slow for them. Kenjarek adopts a 2 handed grip, bringing Sharktooth up from his lower right, reading the wyldling's attempts to dodge the blow like an open book and countering its movement to slash deeply across its chest to the upper left; his blade hums in his hands as ribs crack and a spray of blood fountains into the air. Redirecting the momentum, he swings the sword around for a fluid left to right strike, decapitating the wyldling neatly. There is a brief spray of blood, and the body remains standing until the head drops to the ground, when it collapses with a wet thud. Sharktooth is trembling in his grip, eager for more blood - presumably it has some of the temperament of its namesake.
Kenjarek lowers the blade carefully, turning to his sister, who relaxes from her attack stance, still surrounded by a storm of leaves and glowing brightly. "Two for you, brother," she says hoarsely with a smile. "I'll have to be on my toes if I want to keep up with you."
Wiping the blood from his blade and chuckling, he replies, "I just wanted to get you back for slaughtering me in our last Gateway match."
She raises her huge thorny paws up in front of her appraisingly, turning aside for a moment to spit in the grass. "Still, I'm glad this worked. Wasn't sure it would."
"Yes, quite an impressive trick. I didn't realize you'd actually progressed to advanced sorcery. I'm afraid to ask what other surprises you've got up your sleeve...<slight smile> Just warn me before you start summoning demons."
She chuckles and spits again, clearing her throat. "You'll be the first to know." She lets out another grunt of discomfort as her hands return to their normal size and shape and she picks up Thorn Dragon, wiping at her mouth.
Kenjarek: "Well, I suppose we'd best take care of the prisoners." She draws him aside a little before he moves to call the soldiers. "There *is* still the third wyldling to worry about. I don't imagine he stayed around long after seeing what happened to his friends. I'm in no state to go tracking him," she says indicating her glowing aura, "but if you want to go hunting, don't let me stop you."
"The bowman? He ran off early in the fight. I wouldn't mind adding another wyldling kill to my list, but we've done what we came to do, and I imagine he'll think twice before coming back here."
He whistles a signal to the hidden soldiers to assemble, motions in such a way as to invite Kenlasha to follow me, approaches the prisoners, and addresses them. With a smile and an exaggerated bow, Kenlasha gestures at him to lead the way in turn, and follows a step or two behind, mostly to keep the prisoners out of her aura. A quick brush at her hair, and she looks as if she just came back home from a quick stroll around the grounds of the family villa rather than fighting a bloodthirsty fae.
"Remain calm. I'm am Winglord Tepet Kenjarek of the Imperial Legions, and this is Winglord Tepet Kenlasha. We are here on behalf of your government to rescue you and our soldiers will escort you to safety." There is some confusion and a little embarrassing prostration from the grateful peasants, but our heroes get them organized with no real trouble.
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