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Post by Einheria Idunn Vaetki on Dec 22, 2022 20:48:19 GMT -5
Of all the strange and wondrous realms her ventures within Charon had led her, the Moonglade was quickly solidifying its place among Einheria's favorites.
It was not as if Charon as a whole was not lovely, of course; there was beauty and merit to be found anywhere Solaria's light touched, in the rolling sands and glistening oases of the Zeinav Desert, in the sun-spun walls and shining sea of Sol City, in the howling winds and ivory snow of her beloved Frost Gale. No fairy tale illustration or adventurer's journal could do any of the sights she'd seen their proper justice. But oh, the longer she spends in the expanses of the Moonglade, with its jade-colored grasses and gently-lit plantlife, flora of all colors bursting to life in all crevices of this otherworldly corner of the world, the more certain she becomes that she'll be making no shortage of repeat visits.
A soft, indistinct melody flows from between her pursed lips as Einheria wanders along the coast of the Crescent Isle, the brisk wind a balm against her skin-- oh, in contrast to the brutal heat of the east, this familiar chill is so sweet, enough so that she's once again briefly shed the usual warm clothing she favors just to savor it. Why should she bother with her usual heavy furs and clasps and shawls when there is no snow to fall here, when she harbors no desire to chase off the kiss of the mild Moonglade winter?
So instead, she merely continues her idle walk along the beach, serenity seeping into her features as she watches the gentle waves lap at the glistening sand, watches the way the moon breaks over the sea, spilling broken, pale light over water stained with the wine-dark sky above, embers of starlight captured in heaven and ocean alike. It's quite the lovely scene, truly. She's half-tempted to find a dry place to settle, to curl up with her notebook and sift for a blank page and drag ink and watercolor across one until she's captured the scene before her in parchment so she can carry it with her forth in her journey across the world--
But before Einheria can entertain the thought, she's intercepted by the sound of a shrill, shriek.
She freezes.
It isn't a human sound. No, it's more akin to the strange, angry noises Fimbul sometimes unleashes in the midst of anger, when a mouse has the audacity not to crawl into his beak, or when some loud noise has startled it-- distinctly enraged and altogether avian. Even so, it's louder, stranger than the cry of some bird of prey, the strange marriage of a human's scream and a bird's screech, and for what must be the thousandth time since she stepped out into this world, Einheria cannot ignore the call of her curiosity.
She clicks her heels together, thin blades sparking out from the heels of her boots [1], and she's quick to speed forth, following after that shrill sound, the sand like ice beneath her feet. As she speeds along, the distant, indistinct shapes of houses gain more solid form, roofs and windows and other such distinctions falling into place-- and, so too, does the strange shadow of an odd, winged creature circling overhead. No, scratch that; two? Three...? Just how many are there?
Oh, goodness-- just what on earth has she wandered into?
[1] Ice Skates
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Post by Veliky on Dec 23, 2022 4:29:00 GMT -5
The night is not calm. The half-human cries, the beating of monstrous wings, the scraping of talons against shingles: the sky teems with terrorous life. Saturating the air is that choking sensation that the tested are accustomed to, but which the innocent know as its own, special suffering - that unwelcome reminder that not all will see the sunrise.
The terrified eyes of an old painter cast upward. Death comes to all; but, when its inevitability is concentrated into a mortal form, and when that form is descending upon you on raven's wings, one would only be sane to scream. Its outstretched talons glimmer in the moonlight. The painter is not brave in facing his end.
It's only fortunate that he doesn't have to be.
As the winged death passes the threshold between two houses, a night-shattering SMACK sounds, and the creature is pierced with such force that its body is pinned to the wall! Its end is swift, merciful - an ironic concept, especially if one knows the slow death it had planned for the painter.
As the being has gone still, its subtler features are now easy to examine: it bears the uncanny resemblance of a woman, but its raven feathers and sharpened talons reveal the falsehood. Its wings are thin and spindly, like the branches of an old and dying tree. And its massive eyes, now hanging lazily open, are the red orbs of a hawk. The painter has never seen such a being, but those that have would know it as a harpy: a depraved predator that feeds on the flesh of sailors and fishers. It seems, tonight, its tastes have grown more adventurous, as have those of the flock that yet circles the village.
But what killed her? Even the painter is curious; a closer look would reveal a crossbow bolts, launched with such speed[1] and power[2] that it must've driven through the harpy's ribs and into its heart. A sudden jolt of electricity[3], coursing from the bolt and the harpy's muscles, causes it to twitch. The painter almost faints from the fright, and he almost does so again when he sees something shift in the shadows.
Its approach is marked with the grinding of iron cogs and an implaceable sibilance, as the being that steps forth is a man of metal. Its skin is a tin shell; its joints are clockwork machinations; its movements are stuttering anomalies; its eye is a crimson lens; its voice is a lifeless groan.
"Human pedestrian, report: you are safe."
The painter breathes in relief. Strange though its form may be, the entity is an ally[4]. It is also, assuredly, the harpy's killer, if the massive crossbow in its arms is any clue.
It's soon joined by two other figures, and it is an utterly bizarre truth to say that, of the two, the one that walks on four legs bears more resemblance. As the crossbowman is to a human, this one is to a dog[5]. It's of the same make, constructed of tin, but with a jaw lined with iron fangs. Its spindly, metal tail moves and coils with an unnatural precision as its cyclopic lens glares at the painter.
And then there is the third and final figure, who is utterly dwarfed by her mechanical companions. She is assuredly some breed of halfling - that, or an especially dour and well-dressed infant. Were the painter standing, she'd barely reach over his knee. But he is not standing: a fact that draws a look of condescension from the tiny woman's pale-blue eyes.
"You're not *that* safe." Her voice dissuades all skepticism, however justified; her cadence is mature, her speech is eloquent and her tone is cool and intolerant. "Get up. Now. BF will take you somewhere you can lie in peace."
Somehow, in spite of her stature and the fact that she is alive, there's something that makes her even more intimidating than the automatons beside her. But she, too, is an ally, making her far preferable to the winged abominations that screech above.
Still, true to the little commander's word, the canine-machine strides forward. Its iron claws carve jagged lines in the soil.
Then, as if to question the painter's sanity even further, the dog begins to speak.
"Human pedestrian, command: follow me. I will escort you to safety."
An offer of safety, from any source, is a tempting deal in such circumstances. And so the painter clambers and follows the canine whose steps hiss and clank into the alleyway, leaving the little woman and the crossbowman. Paying no heed to the harpy's bleeding corpse, the woman minces down the side of the road, utterly undaunted by the screeching in the night sky. And her companion walks with her; together, they look over the village - the battlefield - upon the houses that bear the distinctly curving roofs of Crescent isle; along its roads that slope downward, almost to the moonlit tributary that bisects the land by the sea. In times that the tide is low, a sandbank might offer passage over the freezing waters; now, with the moon in the sky, there is only the unyielding waters. And it is these unyielding waters that stand between Einheria and the village in fear.
1. Dashing [Heavy Crossbow] (Bishop-10) 2. Sigil's Blessing (Holy) 3. Sigil's Blessing (Lightning Rune) 4. Bishop-10 5. BF-02
Bringing Minions Bishop-10 (Three is a Crowd II) Knight-02 (Three is a Crowd II) Rook-12 (Three is a Crowd II)
Bringing Pets BF-02 (The Goodest Boy) Stalker-03 (Prismatic Spider)
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Post by Einheria Idunn Vaetki on Dec 24, 2022 21:55:30 GMT -5
For all the myriad things Einheria has seen in her ventures across Charon, she knows there are just as many she has not.
She knows not of the dreary expanses of the Marsh Flats, of the murky waters and weeping trees that droop so over them, of the fog that dances between pale branches that meet the water's surface. She knows not of the Ash Lands and their searing heat, of the liquid sun that pours from the mouth of Mount Drakolt, of the intricacies of Darkveil and all its people. She knows not of the storm-spun Luna Sea, of the cavernous spirals of the Arid Mesa, of the King's Valley and its rolling plains.
She knows not of the source of a voice like the one she hears a short distance away, mechanical, stilted, each word delivered in the same practiced cadence, as if its owner knows no other way to speak. There is no inflection, no comfort behind the comfort it offers, and though there are stranger things in this place still, it makes Einheria's iceborn blood run cold.
"Human pedestrian, report: you are safe."
What manner of creature could produce a sound like that...?
Einheria clicks her heels together, the glittering blades jutting out from the soles of her shoes quickly retracting, and she slows her steps, careful to keep herself out of sight as she continues to approach the village, ready to observe from a distance, assess the situation as she can. For all the company she keeps, all the situations she's been whirled into before, she knows better than to charge mindlessly into what doubtlessly beckons forth danger. Caution is the most steadfast of all allies, its gentle hands set against her shoulders in a silent show of support, ready to pull her away should time and situation demand it.
Her footfalls are near-silent as she observes the scene before her; there sits an older man with fear-dark eyes, the age in his face only intensified by the stress tucked into each line and wrinkle, accompanied by... constructs, like living armor, though a strange red light seems to animate them. They are unlike anything Einheria has seen before, unlike anything she has ever even read about; no living armor or wizard's thralls quite compares to... these. And then, amidst the three, stands a strange woman-- small in stature, but so commanding, with hair like spun gold and eyes as blue and cold as a glacier.
In the center, against a wall, framed like a butterfly pinned against an entomologist's wall in blood and crossbow's bolts, there is a strange creature, avian and human all at once. The sight is morbid, but she cannot tear her eyes away.
All Einheria can do is watch for a moment as one of those strange metal creatures-- the one that resembles an iron dog-- turns to face the human man, ordering him in clear Common to follow behind it. He hardly hesitates, scrambling off to follow, and the pair remaining walk along in slower order, as if to... appraise the damage unfolding before them, silent as they stare out over the village they've walked into.
As strange as this all is, the woman clearly seems to have interest in helping this settlement, so Einheria musters up all her willpower, takes a deep breath, clutches the frost-spun lace of her mantle around her just a little tighter, before approaching as naturally as she can.
"P-Pardon me, good lady and... good... sir...?" she fumbles, confusion flashing on her face as her attention shifts to the steelborn crossbowman. How does one address a construct? Does she address one at all? She would hate to offend the poor thing...! "...Do you happen to know what is going on out here?"
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Post by Veliky on Dec 26, 2022 1:26:21 GMT -5
The moment Einheria reveals her presence, the metal man's knees begin to click in a rapid and grating manner; with many a jarring, jerking movement, it turns until Einheria finds that lens of red glass - that simulacrum of Person's eye - burning upon her skin with a heatless fire. Its neck emits a similar click as its head swivels to follow her movements, but it otherwise stands utterly still, like a statue or mural or other devised thing. Beneath its spindly, yet heavyset feet, the frosted soil cracks and strains.
In the spectacle, it's easy to miss that the miniature woman, too, has turned to face the new arrival with those pale-blue irises that chill with furious frost. Her stance is tall, to the meagre height that her stature allows, and her nose is upturned as if the stranger's presence is some petty offence. Her eyes dart along the white-haired woman's form, scrying the details that're given for free: her empyrean features and graceful gait, but also her confusion, her anxiety, her hesitation. Perhaps the construct is doing the same, but its absence of pupils makes it inscrutable. If either of them are impressed, they do nothing to betray it.
"Who the hell are you? You aren't one of the villagers." Unfettered by the cold, her voice is as clear and solid as glass, through which a certain anger can be told. Einheria, an unknown to the little woman, is a surprise, and she isn't partial to surprises - not now.
But, then, the interrogative demeanour shifts and retracts. The woman rolls her eyes and head in frustration - frustration, despite the white-haired strangress not giving an answer nor being offered the time to do so.
"Oh, forget it. You picked a bad time to visit Choyakana." Her inarticulation in speaking the village's name is notable, as it should be spoken as 'Chōyakana.' She isn't native, though she minces on the road like she owns it. "'What's going on here?' Just look up. Harpies. Stay beside us; they won't attack you while we're here. Trust me; I wish they would."
She turns her gaze upward, almost directly, to the circling clamour above. Where the man had looked with such terror, she sees with only bitterness.
"Attack, that is. Harpies have been marauding villages all over the Isle. But this one's under our protection. They aren't any problem to us; we can easily deal with them."
Her eyes don't divert from the eye of the feathered storm. Silently, she watches like a fisher watches the lake. As the harpies pass one-another, they exchange conversation in the form of bastardizing screeches. But, evidently not seeing what she'd been watching for, the woman's scowl worsens and her tiny, gloved hands ball into tiny, gloved fists.
"The problem is that they *know* it, they *know* we could kill them in a heartbeat. They're smart; they aren't just mindlessly attacking, they're watching our tactics and plotting their own. Clevar kieni." Words of the Goblin tongue - rather hateful ones. "They stay at a distance we can't attack from. When they do swoop down, it's always some sucker punch or hit-and-run that we can't easily counter. The only reason we were able off this one-" she says with a gesture to the punctured corpse on the wall "-is because it didn't see us. But they adapt; that won't work again."
With her venting concluded, a half-cathartic sigh breathes a puff of mist in front of her. But it wasn't altogether relieving; she rubs her temples to ease some cranial discomfort.
"Now," she begins, turning to face the pale-eyed woman and with crossed arms, "I can't spare anyone to escort you out of town, so you're stuck here. Not my deal to negotiate."
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Post by Einheria Idunn Vaetki on Dec 26, 2022 4:00:58 GMT -5
For a lady with such soft features, the very last thing Einheria expects is a tongue so sharp.
She can't hide the way she flinches at the edge in the golden-haired woman's voice, at the way those glacial eyes swirl with a chill that matches their likeness, even the heat behind her words strangely cold as they leave her lips. She is commandeering, the question spoken like a demand, as though she is accustomed to being handed answers the way gods are handed gilded offerings. Einheria is halfway through stammering out an answer, puzzling over the right kind of introduction to a lady such as this when the pages seem to turn, those glittering shards of ice cast into a spontaneous, raging bonfire.
All she can do is blink, taken aback by the woman's intensity, by how cutting her words are. Einheria has always known better than to assess a stranger by appearances alone, but even for the brief second she'd watched this woman before, she hadn't quite expected such... harshness. To call it disconcerting would be quite the understatement, but it is not as though she feels she can argue-- something about the way the stranger speaks makes her feel obligated to fall in line, to smile and nod and go along with whatever is asked of her before things fall into an irreparable spiral.
"A-Ah, um, of course...?" she squeaks, her fingertips toying with the edges of her mantle even more, seeking some form of comfort in the monotony of the motion, in the familiar texture of the snow-spun veil. "I-- thank you, then, I... will not stray from your side, Lady...?"
Another pause, another fumble as she seeks a name she hasn't been given, her attempt as propriety clipped before it can even get off the ground. Einheria shifts in place awkwardly, all her elegance crumbling like a castle wall in the climax of a fairy tale, but there is no glory to be found in such a fall-- no, this is merely embarrassing, all her practiced mannerisms and speech patterns collapsing in the face of a woman unlike any other she's met before. It isn't as though she's a stranger to a sharp tongue-- Ak'ka and Sir Perrath both favor blunter language, after all--, but she's never met someone so quick to turn a verbal sword to a stranger and offer no reprieve.
"...I apologize, I did not catch your name," Einheria whispers, almost pathetically. "I... I assure you that I would need no escort. If there is an issue here with harpies, I would be all too happy to offer what assistance I may."
Even that offer feels ridiculous, almost, and she knows it must seem as such to this stranger, too-- she hardly cuts the intimidating figure, standing so short, her diminutive size and graceful build doing little to speak to a fighter's tendencies. She looks as though she belongs on a stage more than she does on a battlefield, better fitted to dancer's shoes than a blade, but one of her favored weapons is being underestimated. Few would look at her and expect winter's kiss to pour from her lips, or for winged death to answer her call.
Underestimation is what has kept her alive, she suspects, sometimes, but oh, can it get frustrating.
"Luring them to common ground is certainly the easiest strategy, but that is half the challenge," she muses, biting at her lower lip as she extends a hand to summon her glaive in a flash of flurries, tiny snowflakes dancing around her fingertips and fading into nothingness around her. "...if you... needed bait, I would be willing to act as such."
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Post by Veliky on Dec 26, 2022 17:36:23 GMT -5
'Need no escort.' The moment Einheria speaks these words, she receives the look of a woman who's heard them all too many times before - the skepticism of one who's heard them spoken in fraud, ignorance, honesty and everything between. It's a doubtful look, but not an altogether dismissive one. And, as the tundric stranger conjures her polearm and a little snowflake melts upon her little cheek, it's a look that alights into awe before settling into knowing contentedness.
A curt nod marks an unmistakable change in the woman's perception of Einheria.
"Alright. Veliky; no surname, don't ask." And she taps an emblem on her lapel, as if its image and her name are synonymous. It's an unfamiliar symbol, yet a strangely memorable one. "You?"
Given the snowy-haired anomaly's elegant regalia and demeanour (however diminished by nervousness), no surprise crosses the little woman's face as the stranger lowers herself in a delicate, proper curtsy. “My name is Einheria Idunn Vaetki— it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Veliky.”
And said Veliky regards the introduction with a slight scoff. "'Lady?' Do I look like a noble to you?" Her tone has grown softer - no more compassionate, but somewhat less intense, like hot cocoa that's just cool enough to palate. "Don't answer that. Bishop, raise Einheria to Conscript rank and introduce yourself."
As she turns to tread along the frosted soil, something whirrs and clicks behind the mechanical man's metal visage. That same, emotionless voice drones out from somewhere in its head; its disconcerting lack of a mouth makes it difficult to tell where, exactly.
"Conscript Einheria, introduction: I am a Type-III Infantry-Model "Bishop" Blixtbot™. I am designed for mid-range artillery. My designation is Bishop-10."
By the time it's finished its stilted pleasantries, Veliky has stopped beside it. She stands barely at its knee-height, while the bot itself is surprisingly unintimidating in stature, standing perhaps slightly under 5'6". She gestures at it with a nonchalance that can only come from perplexing familiarity.
"Like Bishop just said, it's a Blixtbot™. Fully artificial: non-sentient, totally obedient. There are others in the village; if you see one, say 'Frozen Night' and it'll recognize you as a friend. Speak clearly, though; their hearing can be finicky."
A sharp cry pierces the others, drawing Veliky's eyes upward. Immediately, any sarcasm has vanished, replaced with iron focus...
...But nothing further happens. The harpies are still circling, all accounted for: a false alarm. Still, Veliky doesn't take her eyes off the skies.
"I hope you're dead-serious about helping. Because I have a plan, and it involves taking you up on your 'bait' offer." She scans between the silent houses, and lets in a sharp sniffle of frigid air. "If you keep that glaive hidden and run out there, I'm willing to bet the harpies won't see you as a threat. One or two of them will make a swoop for you. I need you to capture one *alive*, and make sure it's still able to fly and speak. I'll tell you the rest from there."
But her plot is topped with an unsettling sight; beside her, in the frost, a footprint appears from nothing, the telltale mark of an invisible[1] interloper[2]. Three-toed and taloned, like Bishop's. Veliky notices, too, but seems distinctly unperturbed.
"If anything happens, we'll be right beside you."
With those parting words, a shimmer falls around her form and Veliky vanishes into thin air[3]. She, too, leaves unfilled footprints as the invisible Veliky walks along the frozen path. The crossbow-thing's joints click and grind as it moseys toward one of the house, hoists its crossbow on one shoulder, slides the door open, steps inside and closes the screen behind it - a process that would almost be normal if the being performing the actions was not so terribly unnatural.
1. Invisibility (Rook-12) 2. Rook-12 3. Invisibility
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Post by Einheria Idunn Vaetki on Dec 28, 2022 15:16:54 GMT -5
It is strange to see that shift unfold again, though this one is less intense; Veliky's demeanor has gone from glacial to molten to just slightly too-warm, like freshly brewed tea, where heat still blooms through porcelain and steam curls readily off the surface of the liquid. She is hardly gentle, hardly kind, but the bite behind her words has dulled, her words still carrying that same steely, official weight to them, merely without the promise of a threat lurking behind them. It is not necessarily an olive branch, but it is a sapling, and Einheria has enough experience with individuals with sharp tongues and iron skin to know better than to be disappointed by it.
She holds her head high, refusing to allow her own unease to erode her respectability, calling to mind her father's imposing aura, his stern eyes and sharp features and the way he could walk into a room and bring a winter's reckoning with him. He had always told her that so many other adventurers out in the world found him intimidating, and if she pries the roses from her vision, views those memories of her father with a gaze unwarped by prisms touched by love, she supposes she can understand why.
He was-- is-- noble, and stalwart, and proud, and she can be his spitting image, right here and now, for these days, in his honor, she is an adventurer too.
Einheria watches with mild confusion as Veliky turns to the construct and spits out an order to it, something about a conscript rank and an introduction. As soon as it gives an... introduction, of sorts, as much of an introduction as she supposes a construct can, she dips into a proper curtsy, not wishing to be impolite, even to a mechanical sentry that may not even have such conceptions of manners.
"It is lovely to meet you as well, S-Sir...? Bishop," she says, fumbling over just how to address the Blixtbot™. Do constructs have a concept of honorifics? Would it be offended? Has she just offended it? Oh, goodness, she has no idea-- perhaps she will forsake the titles for once. Just this once.
The jumble of panicked thoughts swirl around in her mind, still, only barely pushed back as she turns to regard Veliky once more.
"I will keep that in mind, La-- Veliky," Einheria says, quickly correcting herself. Goodness, she can count the number of people who haven't brushed off her polite titles on one hand! Sir Shaa and Sir Perrath are in the minority... "I promise you, I am quite serious about offering my aid. If it is beneficial for me to bait one out, then I will do as such."
She gives a briefer curtsy, this time, dispelling her glaive as quickly as she had summoned it in another burst of snowflakes. She watches with a curious eye as Veliky disappears into thin air with a promise that she and her mechanical companions will be watching and waiting should anything go south, lavender eyes sparkling with interest as she watches footprints carve out the earth with no visible source. What a spectacular and fascinating woman Lady Veliky is proving to be...!
Still, Einheria cannot waste time with such thoughts-- she takes a deep breath before waving her hands in the air, snowflakes fluttering to life around her hands as she calls another item from her belongings. A fleece blanket, all in pale blue, lands in her hands, and she's quick to drape it over herself like a shawl before stepping forward into the open, a tiny, fragile dancer with no partner, ready for the grand waltz.
It does not take long for the music to screech to life.
There's the warning call, that eerie human-avian cry of a creature that dances between kingdoms, the thunderous flap of wings as something swoops down behind her, down, down, a hunter's pride and confidence carrying what she knows is a harpy down to claim its prey--
Einheria spins, a hand rising to her lips as she mimes blowing a kiss, though a burst of cold, frosty air follows, no sweet love swirling in the gesture. [1] The harpy wails, icicles blooming on the feathers of its grand wings, its movements sluggish with the weight of winter, and before it gets a chance to recover, Einheria pulls at her makeshift shawl, crying out a soft "Now!" before it practically leaps off of her, launching forward to ensnare the harpy in a temporary cocoon of wool and fleece. [2]
It is a quick affair, really, but no less panic-inducing-- she summons her glaive once more in a quick burst of flurries, diving forward to pin the fallen harpy beneath her heels before it can shake free of her living blanket, the blade of her translucent glaive angled at its neck. It is lightly wounded, certainly frigid, but it is alive-- just as she had promised it would be.
One more deep breath-- labored, but relieved--, and then Einheria glances about once more, trying to place just where Veliky could have gone. [1] Drake Gland[2] The Snuggle
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Post by Veliky on Dec 29, 2022 0:49:29 GMT -5
Screech, wail, croak, squawk, caw, scream: the subdued harpy's protests are an education in the noises that its willowy throat can produce. She cries into the night, for her sisters to save her, but her pleas are ignored; the flock knows, now, that the white-haired woman is not to be trifled with. And so they abandon their captured sister to whatever fate is planned for her. She lets out a final squall of despair before falling into resigned silence.
Kronch! A nearby snowheap is demolished by the sudden landing of something unseen. Over a set of taloned footprints, a light shimmer in the air - detectable only by its sudden absence - falls[1] to reveal a crouching Blixtbot™[2], like the one from before. It would be completely indistinguishable from the last if not for its weapon: instead of a crossbow, it carries a plain and impassionate longsword.
The Blixtbot™ gives no acknowledgment of Einheria before another shimmer fades[3] and Veliky appears, clinging to the bot's back. Her eyes, chilling as they are, are the first features to be truly seen, but they don't look to Einheria. Instead, their cold gaze is upon the harpy.
"Good work" is her only greeting before she hops off the bot and onto the snow, beside the harpy whose fuss has resumed. The diminutive commandress approaches in swift, precise strides. And, as she does, she clenches her right hand and raises it to her mouth before uttering a seemingly irrelevant, yet strangely ominous phrase: "Dominate."
On the back of her right glove, a circular sigil of arcane blue appears. Within that sigil is a pictograph: a vague silhouette of a person's head, surrounded by tapering and coiling lines like the tentacles of an octopus or other grasping aberration. Then, without a moment's hesitation, she plants a boot on the harpy's temple and presses an open hand against its cheek.
Despite no obvious harm or injury being inflicted, the harpy begins to writhe and wail anew! The sigil's on Veliky's hand grow and circulate in a manner that invokes fulfillment, until...
Beep. After this little, unassuming noise, the harpy goes completely silent. All emotion fades from its face; and a heartbeat, it's turned from vehement defiance to strange compliance[4]. With Veliky's boot still firmly on its face, it looks up at Einheria with the face of sheer stupefaction.
Finally, the sigils vanish and Veliky steps back, giving the harpy - and Einheria - a moment to breathe. Some tension escapes her with the form of a misty sigh; whatever just happened, it was an ordeal that has now been beaten.
But it would seem that her elaborate plan has yet to conclude, as she clenches her fists again and whispers another inane word: "Fluency." The sigil's reappear, only the pictograph is different: it now depicts a mind-bending chimera of the Common letters A, T and L. Again, albeit now more gently, she touches the harpy's face and imparts some unknown enchantment. This one has no immediate effect (at least, not a noticeable one).
"Alright." Veliky seems to emerge from a trancelike focus of the sort that isn't too unfamiliar to adventurers, as she finally regards Einheria. "You did well. Now let her go."
1. Invisibility (Rook-12) 2. Rook-12 3. Invisibility 4. (Curse of the Hag) Dominate
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Post by Einheria Idunn Vaetki on Jan 10, 2023 18:45:21 GMT -5
Einheria has never been one for horror stories.
She is a woman of whimsy, a child of dreams, the kind of girl who chases the residue of myth and fairy tales and weaves them into the cloth of her own life; she has yet to find any golden apples or magic thread or knights in armor untouched by blood and earth, but she lives her life as though she'll uncover them any minute. That is the only way she has ever known how to live; back when she was still but a hatchling sequestered away in a cavern tower, sustained by storybooks and her father's words alone, all she had were dreams.
And why dream of dreadful things when the world offers better things, offers magic and defiance of the laws of the world, offers things her mind could only sketch the barest outline of before she stepped out to see them for herself? She remembers, still, being tiny and fragile, nestled at her father's side after he'd arrived home from a particularly lengthy venture-- she knows not how long it had been, but it had felt as though it had lasted forever to her young mind--, eyes big and wide with interest as he read aloud to her from a book of fairy tales he'd said he'd purchased in some village out in a grand forest.
She remembers wincing as he read of a witch cursing a maiden, stealing her free will from her, beckoning her forth across a swirling tempest that would surely rend her asunder. She remembers him pausing as he'd noticed, his palm settling against her cheek, brushing a few stray white hairs out of her face as he tried to recapture her attention.
"...What is the matter, Einheria?" he had asked, voice softening subtly in that way it did for her and her alone. "Do you not like this one?"
She'd bitten her lip. "No, father, I... it is fine, really, but I... I do not see a way this can end happily."
Her father had paused, then, before lifting his hand to the top of her head, sweeping his slender fingers over her scalp in slow motions, comforting, gentle. For a moment, he set the book cradled in his lap aside, diverting his focus to her and her alone.
"Einheria Idunn, my little hatchling," he'd said, hushed and soft and sweet, as comforting as all of those times when strange and unfathomable nightmares would strike her in the night. He leaned down to kiss her forehead, his breath cold against her skin. "Strange and cruel things often happen in this world, in storybooks and beyond. But there must be sorrow so we feel the joy of a happy ending-- there must be a challenge to pry victory from. Would you have your tales of princesses without poison apples, or your stories of knights without dragons?"
"...No, father."
"Precisely. Now, I can find you another story... but you will never know what comes next unless you let me keep reading. Happiness is earned, Einheria Idunn. You must not flinch at the cruelties of the world when you know the joys they may one day yield."
She remembers those words, so clearly.
She must hold true to them, now, as she watches Veliky cast her strange magic, as she reduces a creature fighting for its life to some weak and pliant puppet, as a cold distaste settles over her at the sight of another living being actively being forged into an obedient pawn before her eyes.
Einheria swallows, but she does as ordered, whispering a quiet order as she removes the purple blanket that had fallen from the harpy's shoulders, the fleece evaporating into thin air in a burst of flurries as she dispels it once more. She stands back, withdrawing her glaive and twirling it, digging the pole into the ground with a flourish as she studies the vacant-faced avian creature before her, still trying to parse what has happened.
"...What do you wish to do with her?" she asks, trying to mask any traces of unease. "I... I am prepared to follow in any step of the plan you wish for me to, Veliky, but I do need to know what those steps are. What enchantment have you placed upon the harpy, now, and how will it help us...?"
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Post by Veliky on Jan 11, 2023 9:18:07 GMT -5
Freed and unhampered, a lively fervour returns to the harpy's emaciated form. But it's an upsetting, unfocused fervour; her movements are clumsy and incompetent, like an infant's. It takes four attempts of writhing for her to roll onto her stomach, and a freakish scramble for her to rise to a perch. All the while, her gaunt face is contorting between disparate emotions, flexing her facial muscles individually and with little cohesion. Finally, she takes five untrained steps and flaps her wings once, ascending for a fleeting moment before crashing into the rime.
"Ow, dammit!" Veliky suddenly whispers. She's wincing, eyes closed, with two fingers to her temple. Her other features are a mosaic expressions that hover around iron focus.
The harpy rises again, somewhat more gracefully than before, and begins to beat her wings in place. It begins slowly and cautious, then frantic. It sends powerful gusts in all directions; the force needed to lift such a huge bird - even if it's only partly avian - isn't to be scoffed. But she slows her efforts as her face twists into her first distinct expression since Veliky's hex: frustration. Veliky's face mirrors the harpy's ire - or, more likely, the other way around.
It takes a moment, but the harpy's movements eventually find a half-steady rhythm, growing in frequency until she lifts herself into the air, into the night. It's... not a graceful ascent, but it is an ascent. Finally, Veliky lets out a breath that she must've been holding for a near minute.
"Alright... Finally."
With the bird gone, that coolness returns to Veliky's demeanour. But, however distracted she may've been, it seems she noticed Einheria's reluctance. With arms crossed, she looks the snowy warrior up and down.
"Look, don't get 'ethics council' with me. Yes, it's a domination hex; no, it's not technically illegal; yes, I know what I'm doing; and no, there is no better way." Beside her, the automaton adjusts its stance defensively; it's reminiscent of one of the palace guards in Sol. Meanwhile, Veliky's eyes trail back to the airborne puppet. "First time controlling a bird, though. I've flown before, but having actual wings is... new. Anyways, follow me."
She accentuates her command with a beckoning gesture as she turns heel and marches down the street, mechanical bodyguard following closely behind. The intent in her minuscule strides is assuring, though she's noticeably less attentive - a commonplace side-effect of the sort of magic she's using.
"First spell was, like I said, a domination hex. It temporarily suppresses the target's personality and implants a portion of the caster's conscious, granting full control. As we speak, I'm sending her up to join her flock. Should blend right in." Frost cracks and crunches underfoot. At a glance, the harpy seems to have vanished among the others that swoop and screech in the sky, but it takes only a few moments to spy the clumsiest and quietest one. 'Blend right in' aren't the words one would normally use to describe the sight, but Veliky sounds confident enough. "When it expires, the target falls unconscious. Completely harmless. We might even be able to get away with capturing that harpy instead of just killing it."
They round a corner on the road. It's strange to travel so confidently in the obvious presence of violent monsters, but there isn't a shred of fear in Veliky's gait. Just an unspoken focus on the mission at hand.
"When she gets up there, she'll talk to her friends and tell them that she's found where the survivors are hiding. That's what the second spell was for - a language divination. The harpy obviously knows their language, but I don't; I needed it so I can speak through her. Anyways, thinking that they have the perfect opportunity to strike, they'll launch an all-out assault on one house." She stops walking, beside the sliding door of a silent abode, turning to face Einheria again. "*This* house. And, instead of a group of helpless civilians, they'll find us. And we'll be ready. Understand?"
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Post by Einheria Idunn Vaetki on Jan 12, 2023 20:33:36 GMT -5
Veliky's lack of an immediate answer stirs up a surge of unease within Einheria, her question hanging heavy in the air between them for what feels like too long of a moment; the flaxen-haired lady's eyes are squeezed close in concentration, her expression pinched, fingers pressed against her temple as if she's battling off a particularly tenacious headache. But then there's a jerk of movement from the harpy, a series of struggles, each motion unsteady as it struggles to situate into its normal movement patterns. Einheria's a moment away from asking just what in Charon Veliky did to the creature when there's a hiss of pain from that authoritative voice, and all the puzzle pieces click together.
Instead of speaking, Einheria merely stands still; ankles crossed, hands settled against the pole of her glaive, at attention with a dancer's gentle grace, waiting to receive her next order. She digs her teeth into her lower lip, worrying flesh between sharp incisors, careful not to draw her own blood-- it is something to keep her busy as Veliky steadies the pattern, as she finally makes a perfect puppet of her feathered plaything.
And then Veliky snaps something about an ethics council, a steady stream of justifications following the words like she's explained this a hundred times before. And perhaps she has, if the capacity for it lays within her blood, but... but it is not Einheria's place to question it, to attempt to spin this into a moral debate. These harpies are hunting innocents, after all, and... and so it is fair game. Ak'ka had once told her, on her very first venture out into the world, that there would sometimes be enemies she could not reach, and that bringing them to her would be her only option to even the odds-- that toppling the castle until the rubble leveled the playing field was sometimes the only way.
This is... certainly one way to do it.
"A-Ah, I promise, Veliky, I had no intent of lecturing," she says quickly, holding her hands up, as well as she can with her glaive still settled in one. "I was merely curious. I have... never seen anything quite like this before. Not in use. I apologize; I understand the drastic circumstances quite well...!"
She trails behind Veliky with haste, listening carefully to the explanation as it is given to her, nodding along the entire way. Truly, it is a fascinating and inventive plan; it should go off without a hitch, too, assuming Veliky can puppet the harpy perfectly enough to beckon her sisters down to their trap. It is a question of if the gamble pays off, and a further question of if the inevitable combat that follows goes as smoothly as can be, contained within this little house-- it makes sense to trap flying creatures in a house that gives them no access to their beloved sky, but a constrained battlefield is a constrained battlefield.
Still, it will have to do.
"I understand perfectly," Einheria nods, setting her hand against the sliding door. "I will be prepared to unleash all I must. We shall see if a scattering of harpies are prepared to withstand a dragon's wrath."
With that, she pulls the door aside, politely waiting for Veliky and her entourage to enter first, before stepping inside behind them. It is a modest abode, with clean but worn wooden floors, very little furniture beyond a low-set table and other such necessities-- a lantern sits against a counter, the glass door hanging open, a candle having long-since gone cold within its little chamber. One lone forgotten cup of tea remains settled on the table, its drinker having abandoned it, dregs settling at the base of black iron in a small and purposeless swirl.
Einheria glances around for a moment, looking for an ideal place to settle before opting to sit beside the door, figuring a direct ambush sounds ideal. She nods to Veliky, signaling her preparedness, and then...
She waits.
All that remains is to wait.
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Post by Veliky on Jan 16, 2023 5:37:55 GMT -5
Irreverently, the little commandress minces into the room. Her tiny boots trail dirt and snow on the tiled floor; in the Crescent Isles, it's customary for one to take off their footwear at a house's entryway, but the situation is rather too dire to honour such traditions. Of course, Veliky doesn't seem the traditional type regardless, nor does the sword-bearing Blixtbot™ that marches beside her.
The moonlight, muted by the paper windows, shines aberrantly on Veliky's pale-blue irises as she scans about the house, noting every quirk of its layout. The dividing walls, consisting of thin screens, will do little under duress; in the chaos, they are sure to be torn by the flailing talons of the frenzied harpies. For this reason, it would be prudent to prepare for a constantly transforming battlefield - one where enemies can come from anywhere.
All the while, she seems distracted, as if by nothing. To divide one's focus between two bodies is a difficult task.
"...Yeah, that's about what I expected." With crossed arms and an unamused expression, she turns to the white-haired warrior whose form is an ominous silhouette in the half-darkness. "This is gonna be a shitshow. But they're harpies; we can handle them once we've got them all in once place. That said, we're luring them here on the lie that this is a hideout, so we'll need to bait the trap. Give me a second."
After another, brief survey, she clenches her right fist. "Replicant." The sigils appear on the back of her hand once more, only the pictograph now depicts the vague shapes of twinned humanoids. Then, she turns her hand and snaps her fingers (though, with her gloves, the sound produced is more of a soft thwap). And with the oddly casual incantation complete; ambient mana coalesces into thin sheets of scintillating, arcane blue beside her, quickly filling with colour - like dyes on cloth - until they connect to create a perfect copy - glower and all - of Veliky[1]. And then she does it again, and again, and again; until the entire abode is full of lounging, waiting and occasionally arguing little commandresses. It actually becomes somewhat difficult to keep track of which one is real - even the Blixtbot™ seems confused, albeit in an unbiased and wholly unemotional manner.
One of them looks up at Einheria and speaks as if this situation were entirely ordinary. Is it the real Veliky? Perhaps it doesn't matter. "Now, with a little luck, they shouldn't realize that it's a trick until it's too late. Shouldn't be long now, before-"
Her eyes suddenly become distant, as if something on the horizon had suddenly caught her eye. Of course, the horizon can't be seen from here.
"Hold on. This'll be tricky..."
Flight. It's a difficult thing to describe to the inexperienced. There is, of course; the exhilaration of the wind in one's hair, the mind-bending sight of the tiny houses below, and an unparalleled sense of freedom. But there are also less coveted things: the way the wind sucks the moisture from one's eyes, the splitting head-pain when one falls or rises too quickly, and the constant fear that any lapse in rhythm could send one plummeting to the earth. Through the harpy's senses, Veliky experiences all these things and more. Strangest of all is that she's able to understand the meanings of their bastard-screeches, even empathizing with the emotions that she can glean. But, then, she supposes that she's spoken to stranger entities.
She beats the harpy's wings furiously against the frigid winter air. Her flight isn't a graceful one. To her credit, most avians spend their entire adolescence learning to fly. She's had only a few minutes. But the pressure weighs heavily on her, as this is truly her only shot at this plan.
She can see one of the other harpies gliding toward her. It's an ominous sight, triggering a survival instinct that Veliky has to suppress. In order to deceive this monstrosity, she'll need to deceive herself: it isn't an enemy, but one of her flock mates. A charming thought.
Drawing near, the other harpy comes to a hover. And then, with its piercing eyes undividedly focused on Veliky's host, it speaks. Understanding the meaning behind its screeches only makes the shrill notes more loathsome. "Sister! You escaped?! How?! And why are you flying like an idiot?!"
'Sister. Right.' she thinks to herself. She can manage that assumption well enough. Veliky may be a poor flyer, but now's the time for something she *is* good at: bullshit.
"I-I deceived them, sister! I told them that if they did not release me, I would scream so loud that their brains would melt from their ears[2]!"
She intentionally neglects the latter question - always a good technique to avoid uncomfortable subjects. Speaking and hearing someone else's voice - especially one as loud and sibilant as a harpy's - is nearly as disorienting as having wings, leading Veliky to stumble once on her words. But she remains confident, especially when the other harpy's face twists into a devilish grin of pointed teeth.
"The fools! Yes, their brains will melt - in our stomachs!" Charming. It does something like a laugh, which Veliky does her best to imitate. But then its grin downturns, and it scowls at the village below. "But where are they now?! They've vanished!"
Now seems as good a time as any. "They've hidden themselves away! They think they've won! But I saw where they took the..."
She stops. It seems there's no word for 'villagers' in the harpies' tongue, and the word for 'people' has strange connotations.
"The what? The what, sister?!"
This will be one of the grosser things that Veliky has ever said, but she can't think of a better way in such short time. "The meat! They're keeping the meat in a little shelter[2]. If we attack now, we can kill them all!"
That grin returns, but with something more revolting than mischief: hunger. "Excellent! The master will be pleased!"
'Huh?' Strange, but there's no time to think about it. 'Just smile and nod, Veliky.' "Yes! But we must be quick. Come! Summon the others!"
Outside, primal screeches fill the night - gleeful, excited, hungry...
Veliky opens her eyes. She wears a look of confusion, but not enough to overshadow her focus. She looks to Einheria.
"Now's the time. They're on their way."
1. Replicant 2. Smooth Talking
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Post by Einheria Idunn Vaetki on Jan 21, 2023 15:28:05 GMT -5
For a long while, there is silence.
It is not true silence, not really; the little house is occasionally filled with the hushed and sparse bickering of Veliky's replicants, as she had called them, the whir of the construct's movements, the inaudible things the true Veliky whispers below her breath as she keeps her eyes squeezed shut, surely caught up in conversation with the harpies circling this village like birds of prey. But the backdrop of noise is dull and eerie, nothing of true substance, and its adjacency to silence is enough to count, and it is thusly enough to make Einheria feel just a little bit uneasy.
She bites her lip once more, focusing on the feeling of sharp teeth against flesh; it is easy to lose herself in it, easy to mire herself in the game of fighting not to puncture her own lip with teeth that owe to her heritage, easy to test her own maw's capacity to betray itself. It consumes her attention, tucks her carefully behind a shield where other stressors cannot find her, and allows her to process as she may.
She does not know how long it is before a distant chorus of screeching sounds in the air, a wicked choir singing a hymn of hunger as they set out on a pilgrimage. It is enough to jolt her from her bubble of inattention, her shoulders tensing, fingers curling around her glaive as she adopts the proper stance for an ambush. The cries may still be distant, but they are growing ever-closer, and they are a sign that Veliky's plan has worked flawlessly-- as well as a sign that every single being within this little house had best be prepared for a fight in strange terrain.
Einheria squeezes the pole of her glaive.
The screeching grows louder.
Harpies are not stealthy creatures; they do not need to be. Weapons are shaped into their bodies, in their talons and teeth, predators down to the finest point. An average human cannot defend themself well against a harpy, and both parties know this-- so as the latter screeches, it is less the notes of a fool's song and more the sounding of a death bell, ringing and ringing and ringing, the sound and inevitability growing louder as the harpies grow closer.
It is a shame, truly, for the harpies, that they are not facing off against a single average human-- or a single human whatsoever, at that.
Einheria remains dead silent as the door crashes down to the floor, a flock of the harpies emerging through it, hungry and searching, their eyes gleaming viciously in the low light as they scan over the room, wrathful and ravenous and searching, uncaring of the trap they've just wandered freely into--
and then she smashes the pole of her glaive into the floor.
Ice branches out beneath the harpies' taloned feet, cold and smooth, as though winter has chased them past the threshold and made a home on the wooden planks. [1] The effect is immediate; there is the scrabbling of feet and the flapping of wings, a cacophony of screeching, of desperation, panic sounding in a wretched scream-sung melody as the harpies try to get their footing, try to turn around, try to do anything but get caught on the ice in so cramped of a space.
Before the mass of alarm can smooth itself out, Einheria brings her fingertips to her lips as though to blow a kiss, only for a wicked torrent of frost to follow. [2] Once more, the pack of harpies scramble to react, frost clinging to their wings, icicles shaped from the edges of their feathers-- they are sluggish, slowed, a tangle of amber-coated chaos, sweetly sealed in deception.
Einheria turns to Veliky, eyes wide and wild, the stage already set.
"Veliky! They should be unable to escape!"
[1] Ice Over[2] Drake Breath (Frost)
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Post by Veliky on Jan 23, 2023 10:52:53 GMT -5
Transient snowflakes from the blast flutter about Veliky's cherubic features, but do not settle. Her eyes, glimmering in the muted moonlight, are resolute.
"Good." And another Veliky steps up beside her, carrying that same iron focus. "This shouldn't take long."
All at once, the Veliky-swarm rushes forward and the room devolves into something like a war-stricken daycare as an army of toddlerish attackers begins its assault.
Animalistic as their bastardized wings, the harpies are vicious in their defense! They snap and rake at every Veliky that encroaches, obliterating them and sending arcane smithereens floating to the tiles. But the copies are innumerable, and the harpies' stamina is waning.
A Veliky strides up with all the blatant confidence of a royal on the march, and a defending harpy bears its fangs and lunges for her little neck. Its fangs sink deep, brutally tearing at her jugular, only for the Veliky to discorporate. Another approaches, and is rended with wicked talons; another approaches, and its head is crushed into the gap between the tiles. The bastard's eyes are wracked with the red stains of ruptured blood vessels, staring with very bestial fury - and very human hatred. But where its eyes are not turned, where it wouldn't think to watch - that is where the true threat lies, as one of its harpy companions suddenly wraps its wings around it in a constricting embrace! The betrayal comes from the harpy that had been dominated, and remains so.
Shocked and enraged, the harpy stares at its companion! "Sister! Why would you do this?!"
But its companion's face is the very image of calm. "Quit your squawking."
The Veliky-controlled harpy wrestles the screeching other to the ground, pinning its arms! All it can do is futilely snap its jaws as another Veliky encroaches with a balled fist.
"Dominate."
It can do nothing but gnash teeth as the Veliky lays a hand on its frost-covered face. Sigils form, and then sigils fade with the harpy's ire. The fury is gone, replaced by something more mathematical[1].
"One's dealt with!" the Veliky shouts over the havoc. Even the copy is clearly accustomed to command. "Rook, move in to attack!"
As talons scrape through arcane fibre and frosted feathers fly, the automaton steps forward with a clank on the tiles. But, even with a skeleton of steel, its step is light and cautious as it struggles to navigate the Veliky swarm. Without truly knowing which is its mistress, it treats them all as precious. Still, with sword raised, it's prepared - and more than able - to end this fight.
But before it can reach them, the paper wall to its left is torn open, and a frenzied flurry of talons bursts through! They scrape across the bot's hull with the grating of metallic noise, and send the bot stumbling and falling backward, onto the table!
The table hasn't even ceased its sliding by the time the harpy jumps with extended claws, ready to tear the bot's chest clean open. But, with an agility and precision that no being of flesh could attain, the bot rises back to its feet, evading the harpy that sticks its talons into the tabletop. Its shoulders click unnaturally as it does. They both now stand atop the table, facing one-another with opposing spite and unfeeling intent.
They battle, struggling. In the subtle light, they're little more than a pair of silhouettes, dancing a violent dance among the hovering feathers, to the concerto of avian desperation. Boasting greater strength, the bird-thing grasps the construct's sword by its blade, trying to wrest and wrench it away. But the construct, clunky though it may seem, possesses incalculable reflexes; with its taloned feet, it grasps the forsaken teacup, lifts it into its hand and shatters it against the harpy's face! The harpy's quick to release its grasp, weeping as ceramic shards pierce its flesh. Without lulling for even a half-second, the construct bashes the pommel of its sword into the harpy's skull, grabs the harpy in one arm and throws it down! The force shatters the table in half; the brutal sound of splitting wood can be heard even over the chorus of scree. The harpy is left in a daze, stupefied - helpless as a Veliky casually strides up and lays a hand on its face.
"Dominate."
And the creature goes silent[1]. And another singer abandons the screeching choir. The Veliky steps back, satisfied with its work, and looks to the only two harpies that remain.
1. (Curse of the Hag) Dominate
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Post by Einheria Idunn Vaetki on Jan 26, 2023 20:19:47 GMT -5
"Sickening" feels an inadequate word to describe the feeling of watching one of the harpies sinking her fangs into the throat of one of the Veliky Replicants, the puncture of sharp teeth into skin difficult to watch even if they rend no further wound, even if no blood pours from synthetic veins. Any distant, fleeting sympathy Einheria might have once felt for these creatures has long since departed, but the door slams shut behind it as she sees the animalistic way the harpies tear through Veliky's copies, eager to tear them to pieces like they are pieces of meat and nothing more, even knowing the copies will merely slip away beneath tooth and claw.
She lingers at the edges of the madness for a moment, not wishing to endanger Veliky or intercept her plans, opting merely to maintain the coat of rime clinging to the floorboards in an effort to keep the harpies still trying to escape on unstable ground. They learn quickly, it seems, though, and turn their attempts to flee right back into fighting, a wretched, bestial glint flashing across those eerie human-avian eyes, an utter desperation just to survive painted furiously in the crevices between hunger and bloodlust.
But they have sauntered willingly into the dragon's lair, cocky little birds pecking at the claws of something greater and more dangerous than they could have realized, and no matter how they flail and screech and struggle to fly, there is nothing that can save them, now.
It is unexpected to see Veliky handle them nonviolently, opting to utilize that strange arcane power of hers to tranquilize them, forging feather-bound puppets from their defeated bodies as soon as she gains the upper hand. So she had meant it indeed when she said there was a peaceful route to all of this; Einheria cannot say she is complaining, really. It would be a shame to stain floors not their own with blood, and deep down, some part of her would... struggle with the aftermath of a massacre, no matter what it was in answer to. She has learned the language of violence well since she has left her father's side, learned to deceive and destroy with the same lips and hands she uses to encourage and hold, but she would be a fool to let it become the only dialect she can speak.
She whirls her glaive once more, the weapon glittering beneath the lamp-light as she turns to face one of the remaining harpies, clicking her heels together for an additional bit of grace. [1]
And then she surges forth, a dancer on ice meant for her alone, aiming a swipe of the blade for the harpy's left wing-- there is a burst of feathers, of blood, the inhuman howled hiss of a monster as claws swipe back at her in retaliation, aiming for the heart. Einheria bites her lip, quickly grabbing the edge of that sheer white cloak draped over her and lifting it up, watching it freeze like ice just in time to intercept, the talons screeching unpleasantly as they scratch against mimicked ice instead of flesh. [2]
She cannot hesitate-- as soon as the creature's claws bounce off, she grabs the pole of her glaive with both hands, drawing the blade back like a club and swinging it forward until the flat side strikes the harpy's skull with a wicked crack, the creature giving her a blank stare before crashing to the ground.
One more. Just one more!
Einheria swivels, then, her voice echoing out in a high-pitched war cry, the split ring of a bell as she skates toward the final opponent, digging the pole of her glaive into the floor and spinning around it, aiming a bladed kick right for the harpy's chest. There's the brief catch of claw against her leg, but it does not faze her; she whirls around once more, lifting both feet off the ground on this cycle as she aims both blades for the harpy before her, lavender eyes alight with fury, with the desperation of the last stretch as one skate strikes the collar and the other the face.
The creature hisses, enraged, scrabbling forward blindly in an effort to hit her once more, but blind violence earns her little-- Einheria has already slipped off to the side, her glaive held high, judgement poured into the flat side of the blade once again as she brings it down against the harpy's skull, shaking the consciousness from the final standing sister.
There is a crash, and a deep, shuddering breath.
They have done it.
They've won.
"...That... was all of them," Einheria whispers, almost in disbelief. "That was all of them, yes? We've done it?"
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