Snow fills Roland's hair and pads his shoulders as he trudges towards South Brook. The morning sunlight twinkles through the ice covered trees, giving the land a truly magical quality. All signs of last night's fierce storm have since faded and the sky is now beautifully clear.
Its been a heavy winter so far, one of the worst that Roland remembers, but Sarah was quite adamant that something was to be done – and she has a way about her. You remember when she came with her father, and the rest of her family to Evermoor over sixty years ago. Her father, Ulrich, proved himself many times over before time stole him away. Whatever stern material he was made of must have passed down to his daughter. Even though she had gray in her hair, and grandchildren of her own, she had marched through the snow packed woods for two days looking for Evermoor's guardian.
South Brook is a small village on the outer borders of Evermoor, near some of the secret ways to and from the Great Forest of Arden. Roland has visited on many occasions over the years, watching the village and its inhabitants slowly change. He can't remember the last time he passed this way – five, ten, maybe even twenty years. Too many days in Amber perhaps and tomorrow he is scheduled to return again. Tomorrow night will be the Queen's anniversary party. One hundred years... one century since her marriage to Corwin. If not for that she would never have been Queen. Every year another celebration, each more decadent than the last, or so Roland has heard. It has been years since he last attended. Still, his presence will be strongly requested this time – Julian made that as clear as the today's sky when last they spoke some months ago. "A dukedom is more than a title, Roland. When she calls, we must go."
Still, enough time to check on South Brook. Nobody had heard from them in weeks, and the few expeditions sent, including one with Sarah's son, hadn't returned. Perhaps it was just the snow. Villages could be cut off for months at a time, although even in this weather, a few signs of communication would be expected – there were no passes to be blocked off, just woods. Trogre perhaps, but they only ever caused damage and a few deaths, and increased activity by them would have been noted by Sarah and others. They never destroyed whole villages with no traces or indications.
Roland's thoughts are interrupted by a large black shape ahead. South Brook is perhaps twenty minutes away, its doubtful this is a new construction by them. The black object is bent at a forty degree angle. It would be as tall as a tree, perhaps twenty five feet tall if it stood straight, but judging by the way it has crushed several trees, its weight must be far greater. Approaching cautiously, it becomes clear that the object is in fact a statue made of the blackest obsidian rock. Not something one would expect to find anywhere in Evermoor, and there are no signs of footprints or other tracks of any kind. Barely any snow is on the mammoth figure, and from the damage to the trees, it looks as though it put here very recently – within the last day. As far as Roland can tell, it just fell out of the sky.
Roland gets a little closer and can finally make out the face of the statue – Dara, Queen of Amber.
Roland growled at the visage of the queen. He felt his irritation grow then fade.
"Waste of a perfectly good stone," he grumbled to himself. Although the fact that it was here bothered him and that someone felt strongly enough to topple it bothered him even more, he was more concerned with the situation in the village. So he trudged onward, after a quick recon of the area, his keen senses even more alert than usual.
Roland does not like changes.
He began to seriously consider altering the paths to Evermoor from 'difficult' to 'damned near impossible.' He hoped that the statue was not to be a bad omen as he trudged towards South Brook.
Twenty more minutes of trudging through the snow, reveals no more statues or other oddities. The blanketing snow and bitter cold give everything a uniform appearance. The bleakness of it all is powerful, giving a sense of a calm cold death. Everything is but sleeping, Roland knows. He knows that life is still present even in such apparent waste. It comes to him as he is almost at South Brook – the reason there is such a feeling of death. The animals. The only sound is the wind. The tracks are his own. Even in this cold, Roland would have expected to see some signs of animal life.
Blackened buildings and burnt trees interrupt the endless white of Roland's vision – South Brook. Burnt rubble indicates where many of the buildings once stood – houses, the church, the trading post, watch tower – all gone. He can see the small school house, partially collapsed. What few buildings remain appear to have been burnt by fire. There are no signs of life in the town, no tracks either. There is some snow there, but not as much as in the woods. There are also no signs of anything resembling th statue that Roland found earlier. Roland is still a good distance from South Brook though, and can only tell so much at this distance.
Roland's face hardened as he redouble his efforts to make it to the village. Becoming even more wary he readied his ax and proceeded with quick caution. He did not want to be caught unawares.
Not good,thought Roland.
He continued looking for signs of life, or at least clues as he approached.
Y'Geseth remains still, but Roland own senses, honed through many battles, keep him alert.
A child's face looks up at you through the snow – a girl, ten years old perhaps. She would have been pretty if she still breathed, but her skin is a bluish tint and her long brown hair is splayed about, frozen solid in the snow. It is only her face and head though, her body is gone, separated by a clean cut.
Other bodies litter the ground, buried underneath a thin layer of snow. The cold temperature combined with the snow has preserved the bodies, making their date of death hard to pin down. One to ten days, perhaps. Few of the bodies are decapitated, and it seems that their enemies did not distinguish between men, women and children.
A comely woman, in her late thirties, her torso savagely torn from her legs. A man with an ax in his hand, lies under some rubble, his body peppered with arrows. An older, battle scarred man is by the watch tower, Roland knew him. Durin was his name, he had fought by Roland's side on two occasions – a fine warrior. His left arm has been ripped from his body, and there is a giant hole in his chest, as if something had just reached in and pulled that portion of him out. A Trogre fist sized hole. Many more bodies litter South Brook, their faces embedded in Roland's memory. None of the enemy though. All of the fallen are from Evermoor, of that Roland is sure.
There are fewer bodies than would have been expected if the entire village was killed, however. Perhaps half the village's population is unaccounted for. None of the faces Roland's seen have matched that of the picture Sarah showed of her son, though Roland did find a few bodies with their heads removed, and more bodies may be hidden in deeper snow or in the rubble. Throughout the search, no signs of life can be found – only death.
Roland finds more arrows, embedded in the ground, buildings, and people. They are of excellent quality, with metals head that are so finely crafted that he suspects they might be machine made. Similar arrows are used by the armies of Amber, the rangers of Arden, and throughout much of the Golden Realm, although a comparison would be required to see if they are actually the same.
Several building walls look like they have been ripped down by force, a feat beyond the ability of a human. One of the barricades has large hoof prints in it. Whatever beast made them was extremely heavy and strong, not the like of any creature in Evermoor.
Inside the rubble of the school house, Roland finds an area devoid of snow, the remains of a large wood bonfire in the center – made mostly of school chairs and desk. Here, there are Trogre footprints embedded in the snow, at least three separate creatures. Inside of the fire you see bones – human bones, burned clean. Other bones litter the building, some of children, some of adults.
Roland carefully picked through the remains of the village. He took samples of the arrows and any other clues that would him make sense of this butchery. He pondered whether or not the Trogre were involved initially or were merely scavanging for food. He hoped for the latter, for if anyone managed to control even a handful of Trogre that person would definatly be aforce to be reckoned with. Although things still were not sitting right. Trogre do not wait for combat to end in order to start eating. The damn arrows. He needed more clues.
Roland was angry. Angrier than he had been in a very long time. Whatever did this would pay dearly.
He surveyed the wreckage one last time. It was all so sensless in Roland's mind.
He went a ways from the village and cleared some snow from the ground. He then placed some rocks and sticks into a peculier order. Any Huntsman or Fey that came here would now know what Roland knew.
He then burnt the village to the ground.
All who dwelled in Evermoor who saw the smoke and flame would know what that meant...
Someone had sparked Rolands rage and invoked his wrath.
As the village burned Roland quietly turned away and headed onward.
His angry eyes fixed firmly on Amber.
The plume of black smoke rises up from the wilderness as Roland marches towards the Golden City, his mind replaying the scenes from village, hoping to garner further clues. It is possible that the Trogre came afterward, but from the injuries seen, a number of the villagers were killed by Trogre, and there no signs of any attempts at burial, which any returning villagers might have attempted. Many valuables were still in some of the damaged houses, ripe for the thieving. The evidence points to a senseless slaughter. Nor do the culprits make sense - arrows, horses, and Trogre. Such organization for the Trogre would seem impossible.
If they rode into Evermoor through the woods of Arden, they would have taken a path similar to, or the same, as the one Roland now walked. Or they might have come in from elsewhere in Evermoor, in which case their path might be untraceable given the recent weather. Roland pauses, his eyes focused upon the bushes and shrubs. Something had passed this way, maybe days ago. More likely many somethings - humans on foot, by the look of the damage to the shrub. The damage is obvious though, the people made no effort to avoid the bushes - not natives or, at least, not natives moving freely. Roland can't be sure what direction they heading in, but this path would lead them along the secret ways of Evermoor - ways known only to a precious few. They must have moved along here before the latest snowfall, the signs of their movements now largely hidden. Roland believes he might be able to track them, though the process won't be easy.
The eyes beneath Rolands shaggy brow tightened as he examined the tracks.
"What the hell," he thought to himself, "I was probably going to be late anyway. If I follow them, at least I have something to report or make into an excuse.
Roland was not happy as he wound his way cautously through the forest. Outside influences were beginning to complecate his life. He did not like it. He was hoping that whomever he was tracking would present themselves and give him a good reason to cleave them in two.
Hefting Y'geseth he continued to follow the trail, taking special care to remain as stealthy as possible.
The snow grows thicker and darker as Roland march along, unable to fully conceal his passing. The darkness reminds him of the color of snow near the Guild factories in Amber - though there are no such factories this deep in the forest. The fires from their furnaces blackens the once pristine snow, turning it from a pristine white to a muted gray.
The path continues steadily onward along the paths from Evermoor into Arden. The light dims somewhat as Roland crosses the threshold between the two Shadows, a sign that the sun has not risen as far in this portion of Julian's realm. Several times the path seems to disappear, but Roland finds it again without losing much time. If only he had come upon the trail before the latest snow hid it from the world, then he would have learned much more from the little signs they would have left.
Roland follows the path for what must be at least two hours. The trees here are taller and older than those in Evermoor. It is as deep into the endless forest as Roland has ventured in many years, far from Amber's valleys. Few rangers dwell within these depths, though Roland knows that Julian has fortresses and villages deep within every corner of his realm. Roland has been through similar portions of the woods before, hunting with Julian as a young man, learning to track the most elusive and prized beasts in the forest - the ones that ran wild far from eyes of the civilized world.
Roland smells the scent even before he sees the footprints. A barest hint of something foreign - something human. The tracks are fresher and cross the path of the force that Roland follows. A single man, weighted down, passed this way during the last snowfall. That he traveled during such a storm is either a testament to his endurance or to his stupidity. He made no attempt to cover his tracks, though he may have hoped the snow would do that for him. From the weight of his tracks, its clear he wasn't moving too fast, but he could be a long distance away by now, although the traces of a human scent still in the air hint otherwise.
[OOC: You have 30-36 hrs before the party in Amber begins.]
A barely audable growl rumbles from Roland's throat.
He studies the tracks closely for more information than changes course to follow them. He accelerates his pace, not caring whether or not he passes through the area unnoticed. His only consideration for stealth is ensuring that those who he is trailing are unaware of him.
If luck is with him, the trail will draw him closer to Amber.
Roland darts between the trees, following the trail in the snow, without regard for his trail. Even at his speed though he still manages to remain mostly silent - only the most alert of animals could hear his approach.
Roland is moving so quickly that he almost doesn't notice when the path ends less than fifteen minutes later. The tracks approach a large rock outcropping, covered in snow, and do not emerge on the other side. The person probably took shelter under the cover of the rocks during th Storm. The area is deathly quiet, and Roland is fairly sure he has not been detected. He cannot see under the outcropping from his present position, but neither can his prey detect him. The sense of something foreign that Roland caught before is stronger here. Y'geseth remains unaffected, heavy in Roland's grip.
Roland inhales deeply and tries to focus all of his senses on finding more information.
He then quietly, with great care to remain undetected, even adjusting for scent, he circles the outcroping looking for a better vantage point. A better angle of attack if necessary.
Roland is reasonably sure that he has not yet been detected, when he peers, hidden by trees into the folds of the outcropping. Within the shadows of the rock, a figure - a man, by Roland's guess - huddles under a fur-lined cloak. He looks to be asleep, curled into a fetal position. A large, full looking bag is next to him. He is resting his head on the top of a large hiking backpack. The bow lying close at hand looks to be of inferior quality to those used by Julian's rangers. In all likelihood he has a knife, or other weapon at hand under the cloak.
Roland
peers closer and sees several days of stubble on the man's face. His
hair is a mangled mess of black - his skin tanned and worn - clearly a
man who has spent many years working under the sun. Roland listens
carefully and can hear the rhythmic breathing of sleep.
Roland approaches quietly. Carefully placing each foot and making sure that not even his shadow falls across the man. He eases himself into a defendable position well out of the mans reach but with in striking distance for him. He readies Y'Geseth to either strike or parry.
With a low rumble he growls,
"Awaken."
The man awakens with a start, letting out a short shout of panic. He moves instinctively to a knife hidden at this side, but looking at Roland and his ax, the man decides that discretion may be the wiser course. The man is not thin, indicating he has some source of food, although the two missing teeth hint of his origins in the lower class. There is genuine panic evident in his expression, and it is possible that this man has never seen real battle before - although the sight of Roland has caused lesser soldiers to forget their training before. "Blessed unicorn..." His voice is deeper and stronger than you would have expected with little hint of accent that Roland can so far detect.
Roland stared at the man for an uncomfortable amount of time.
"I am going to tell you something then it will be your turn," he started in his perfectly even tone.
"First... I am in a very bad mood."
"Second... I am planning to take out this mood on those who caused it."
"Third... While hunting for those who caused my bad mood, I found you."
He paused to let the weight of the situation sink in to the man.
"Now it is your turn. You will start with your name and home, then tell me everything you have done in the last month or so. If you speak the truth you will live."
He glared at the man as a reminder he added,
"I am Lord Roland of Evermoor and I am in a mood most foul."
He then nodded for the man to start talking.
The man's pauses for a second and when he begins speaking, it is with a slight stutter, undoubtedly caused by fear, nervousness, or a guilty conscience. "I- I, uh, I. Da- Damien. My name's Damien. I'm from the low slopes of Amber." The lower slopes are part of the great sprawl that Amber has seen under Queen Dara's rule. It is an impoverished area, high in crime, located upon the lower slopes of Kolvir.
"I'm..." he pauses, looking at Y'Geseth. "I'm a hunter. I've spent the last few weeks here in Arden, looking for game." Hunting in this part of Arden is restricted by Julien. Only by his leave are the beasts of this part of the forest to be hunted - a privilege he rarely extends to any now that the command of Arden has officially been granted him by the crown. The man is most likely a poacher and if caught by Julien would, if lucky, only lose a hand, and if unlucky would lose his life, and bring disaster upon his family. "Please," the man implores. "Please, take pity on me. I only do what I must to help my family."
Roland squints at him and releases a low rumbling growl.
With a slight shift of his weight, Roland places himself in a less intimidating stance and lowers his ax to a defensive position.
"I have no jurisdiction in Arden," Roland states calmingly, "I am more interested in the group of people your trail intersected with a ways back."
He studies the man some more. Looking for more clues and, more importantly, hints of deceit.
"Continue," he commands. Searching for more elaboration.
Damien seems relieved, and lets out a deep breathe of air, which rises like steam in the cold. "My trail? How long you been tracking me? I haven't come across anyone in days. I spotted a group of rangers two, maybe three days back, but I hightailed it out of there real quick." The man appears sincere, but Roland can't be certain. Its possible that he didn't notice the trail his path crossed - in the middle of a storm, only an expert hunter would have seen it. "Ain't seen nobody else. Honest. Hardly nobody comes out this deep here, and I didn't come with nobody."
Roland scratched his beard thoughfully.
"Pack up your gear. You will be escorting me back to the city and your home."
Roland leaned back against the wall.
"We leave as soon as you are ready. Be quick but don't do anything sudden... or stupid."
Damien listens and nods as Roland speaks. He is slow to move at first, still fearful of Roland, but quickly speeds up. There is little to pack, and he appears ready to go in less than a minute.
Damien is adjusting his glows when he jumps back slightly in alarm. "What in..." A faint glow from the head of Y'Geseth seems to have alarmed him. Roland can't detect anything that Damien was doing that would alarm Y'Geseth, but it is possible he was just thinking particularly bad thoughts. More likely though, is that is something else that is the cause of alarm. The glow intensifies slightly, but remains at a muted level. Instinct guides Roland's senses to a heightened level. Movement... horses perhaps, not too far off... coming along the path that Roland took to this spot.
"Damn..." Roland growls quietly, "Time to go."
He grabs Damien by the shoulder and heads out of the alcove looking for a place to hide off the path.
With a thought he silences Y'Geseth.
"Quickly, the enemy is coming."
Half dragging Damien, he heads to a safer position.
"What? I-" Damien begins to say before he also hears the sound of horses and quickly quiets himself. Roland quickly finds a place to hide behind some snow coated pine trees. If the supposed enemy quickly passes by they probably won't notice anything, but if they are being more careful, or have Roland's level of skill, they'll probably notice tracks leading through the snow to Roland's position. The Duke of Evermoor might be able to move unnoticed, but Damien lacks the skill and his footprints can be clearly seen for all those caring to look.
Roland listens attentively - two horses, probably bred for riding through the rough terrain of forests. It isn't long before the two steeds ride into the clearing, each carrying a single rider. They aren't moving at full speed - slow enough to follow obvious tracks. The riders are unmistakable: two of Julien's rangers. Their uniforms are the traditional muted colors worn in the frost coated regions of Arden. There is no chance of concealment on their brown mounts however. Both men are fully armed for hunting with swords, knives, and bows. They don't appear to be equipped for an extended trip, indicating that they must have a camp within half a days ride at most. They almost overshoot the alcove, but one whistles, indicating Damien's tracks.
Damien's hand has drifted to a knife under his coat. He is trembling slightly, and Roland suspects it isn't from the cold.
Silently Roland pulls Damien back.
"Stay put unless I call for you, if you run, you die." he whispers harshly.
He throws back his hood and walks around the trees towards the Rangers. Y'Geseth is out but resting on his shoulder lazily but his arm is coiled like a spring. He has palmed one of his smaller knives in his left hand. His approach takes him to their flank as he tries to minimize the possible use of their horses while keepinging close to some cover.
When he is in the open he releases a shrill whistle through his teeth.
"Hail!" he shouted as way of greeting.
The two rangers stop, and look over to Roland. After a moment of whispered communication, they wheel their horses about to approach Roland. Their faces are obscured by their helmets and heavy fur cloaks, but one pulls down scarf from about his mouth to speak. His accent is of a lifelong dweller of Arden, not a recruit from the city or more distant lands.
"Hail, stranger. These are the Duke's woods, and you are far from any road. What business have you here?" The two men appear to be trying to move into an attack formation around Roland - a tactic the Prince saw taught and mastered extensively by the rangers. Roland is positioned well enough that if they do attack he should be able to retreat into the thick of the trees where their mounts will prove a disadvantage.
Roland's eyes go to slits and he growls slightly, making them aware that he KNOWS what maneuver they are attempting and that they should stop.
"I am Prince Roland, Duke of Evermoor. After following a small army, I met up with my man and am now heading to the City.
He eyed them dangerously.
"What is your business here?" he asked in a even tone.
The two men look back and forth at each other when Roland reveals his identity - their advance halted. The one that had remained silent leans towards his comrade and his whisper carries through the frozen air. "... his ax ..." The first man examines you, or perhaps your weapon, again.
The two men exchange another look, before the first man begins speaking again - slower than before, as though deciding his words carefully. "There is no army in this land besides that of the Duke. And I see nobody here but yourself Prince. Where is your man? We are on a search for a criminal, loose in the forest. We have already captured his companion, and now we seek to complete our hunt, so that we might return to the warmth of home."
"A force leveled South Brook. I was hunting them but my presence has been requested in Amber."
If it was unclear before it has been made very apparent that Roland is in a Bad Mood. He points the direction of the tracks he found and of South Brook.
"Criminals are the least of your worries. The forest will deal with them. Look back a ways and you will find signs of a large force heading away from Arden. You can even tell Julian if you want."
He glared at them.
"Good Hunting," he said by way of dismissile and command. Although he didn't care what they did as long they left him alone.
He stepped back into the brush and faded as he headed back towards Damien. He was cautious as he made his way. He wanted to collect his new companion and get to Amber as quickly as possible. Things were changing if the Rangers were turning into enforcers. Answers lay in Amber.
The first man nudges his horse forward, and his hand strays closer to his weapons. Roland's instincts are clear - the ranger intends to attack. Before he takes another movement, the second ranger, who had remained mostly quiet raises his arm out to his side - open palmed. The first ranger instantly returns his hands to the reins and pulls his horse back.
The two horsemen watch Roland head through the bush for a minute, making no move to pursue. There is the sound of crunched snow as the horses ride off further along their path, although at a much reduced speed than before.
Damien remains huddled in the bushes, and jumps slightly in his crotched position as Roland comes upon him. His knife is drawn although he does not raise it against Roland. His breathing is heavy and despite the cold, his face is covered in perspiration.
Roland stares at Damien for a moment waiting for him to put his knife away or swat him if he tries to use it.
"Come, we return to Amber. You will now tell me everything that has happened to you, the city, and your companions as we go."
He points into the woods towards the city.
"We go that way."
He hefts his ax onto his shoulder.
"After you."
(OOC: The city of Amber is very long walk from where you are. Without mounts it will take you several days - probably more with Damien - to reach it. It could go faster with Shadow shifting, but little can be gained so close to Amber.)
Damien puts away his knife somewhat hesitantly, still appraising you and your intentions. When you get near he whispers, "Thank you."
The snow crunches under Damien's feet as you head back towards Amber. "I... uh... it was just my brother-in-law, Mar, and me... I thought you might be with them... I didn't know what... We left Amber, maybe about a.. a week ago. We wandered a bit too deep maybe, looking for the best game... but, the animals weren't no good there. Turned round when we came cross one of them forest towns. One of their patrols must have spotted us. Mar and I, we split up. I, ah, had hope he escaped, but it..." He looks down at the ground, biting his lip. "Glad you found me 'fore they did though." The world is silent save for his voice and feet - no sounds of pursuit, at least none on horseback.
Although this close to Amber it can be difficult, if not futile, Roland Shifts Shadow as they walk. Hopefully, making their way easier and more likly to come across some mounts.
He listens closely to the forest around them as he silently urges Damien to continue with a wave of his hand.
"Tell me of the City."
"The city?" Damien asks, slightly confused. "You mean the forest town I saw? Not much to say 'bout it. Didn't see too much o' it - what with those big walls and all. Lots of them rangers about - place looked plenty busy. Couldn't get too close either - they'd thinned the trees there - couldn't hide too well. We took off real quick - places like that ain't nothin' but trouble for us."
Damien adjusts his bags and attempts to quicken his pace a bit to keep pace with the more sure-footed Roland. "Sometimes - mainly abouts spring - I always start thinking how'd it be if we up and left Amber, headed out to the woods - make up a new home 'round here. But then the cold comes and I just miss the fires of home. Not it'd matter - I heard da people who do just end up as food for da Duke's hounds."
Damien looks around more nervously. The trees are darker now, and the top layer of snow turned to ice. The air seems thicker - colder. The sounds of the forest seem swallowed up and even Damien's words seem muted. The Shadows have moved sluggishly, but with greater ease than Roland would have expected this close to Amber. Many of the changes in the environment are unnatural - secondary effects along the path to the horses.
Roland made a mental note regarding the shifting of Shadows. Either he was getting stronger at it (something his mother hinted may be possible) or Amber was getting weaker. The latter did not bode well. He continued to shift.
"Stay close."
He begain to focus on the details of the ride-able horses they should be coming upon soon.
"Tell me of the city of Amber. I have been away long."
He also made a mental note regarding the fortresses that Julian seemed to be building.
"Amber?" Damien seems nervous. "I.. I don't know what goes on at court. Just folk like us, like me, we, uh, we just try to get by, stay out of too much trouble. I, I heard that the Prince, Prince Brennus, is back - not too sure where he was though. When I left, people were all talking about the celebration - some anniversary of the Queen's. May already have happened, not sure. Heard the Queen was gonna give something out - food or gifts or something. So cold there now, winds whipping through the streets. Anything be nice. Hard ta get a good job these days - my sister's son, he got himself a job in one of 'em new factories - building something. Lost a finger in them machines, lucky he still has his hand, but he can na leave da job. Have to find work though, join the army or do something else." Damien emphasizes this last point by hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder.
Damien takes a breath and shudders "I didn' think it could get no colder." The temperature does seem to be decreasing, although not so much as to give Roland too much concern. "Seems like things gotten worse lately. The city keeps growin', but so much not safe - gangs. And the Queen's marshals, the city guard, they don't seem to care much, seems they worse than the gangs sometimes. Not too good up the hill either I guess, what with all them nobles trying to rise 'ganist the Queen. Da trials ain't nothin' but..." he pauses mid-sentence, as a black horse, already saddled appears from between the trees.
The sight beyond it is more disturbing however, a body hanging from the trees, swinging in the wind. Three bodies, feet to the heavens, are hung by long rope from a tall black tree. Two of the three are dressed in the uniform of Arden's rangers. The third is a thin old man with a short beard, dressed in purple velvet. His shirt is died red, and blood drips to the ground, dieing the snow crimson. The bodies look very fresh, blood still dripping from chest and neck wounds on the rangers, and down their faces.
Roland releases a small growl and readies his ax as he goes to investigate.
"Stay put and stand watch," he commands as he approaches the horse slowly and calmly as not to spook it. He takes a moment to sooth it if necessary and befriend it before he secures the beast so it will not run off.
He then investigates the bodies checking for life signs, and any ways to identify them. Roland is also taking care not to disturb anything any more than necessary. He allows himself to become hyperalert... searching/sensing for clues as well as danger.
"Do you recognize them," Roland asks in a barked whisper.
The forest is still - dead. No life and no movement. Even Y'Geserth remains silent. Roland's senses extend as his mind joins with the flow of the forest as Julian taught him. The silence is almost unbearable - all natural sounds gone - leaving the forest more alien than Roland could imagine possible.
Damien shakes his head. "N- no, but I - I... I don't think I could tell the... the rangers a- apart anyway." Damien swallows hard and looks about nervously. He grips the tree at his side as though afraid of being blown away by a sudden burst of wind.
The horse seems calm as though oblivious to the hanging bodies and blood stained snow. It takes to Roland rapidly, apparently eager for attention. There is a slightly vacant quality to the beast, as though it were not fully awake and aware. Upon inspection, Roland recognizes the saddle and bridle to be probably belong to the forest's rangers - possibly belonging, along with the horse, to one of the hung men.
The old man appears clean, soft - likely a noble of some sort. The ranger's weapons appear undrawn - possibly taken by surprise by their attacker, although the wounds appear to have been inflicted at close range.
As Roland moves to check the bodies the world seems to slow down. Y'Geserth grows heavy, and gravity seems to hasten its attempts to pull the Prince down to the snow. The air grows thick as though filled with fumes. A sour taste on the tongue. Magic...
A pattern of blood traces the snow. The red stains upon the snow, not random in their distribution. A ward. Memories of the sorcerer Mordred's incantations come back to Roland - his circles and symbols. A circle of blood, now crossed by Roland's boots.
Movement. Y'Geserth glows even as Roland raises it to block the blade. The form rebounds back as the weapons collide. Its white skin, hair, clothes eyes all are mottled with the brown of bark and the blue of sky. A form - almost a man - indistinct to the eyes glides to the ground with the agility of a bird - long knife in each hand. His colors and features twist as though distorted by waves of heat - shifting like a chameleon into the forest. He crouches on top of the snow and then vanishes into the wind. For a moment he appears again in the corner of Roland's eye - but his movements are too quick for the slowed Prince of Amber.
"DAMNATION!" Roland roars as he leaps backwards, trying to remove himself from the warded area and, hopefully, remove the sluggishness he is feeling. He curses himself for allowing himself to be almost blindsided. Only once, however, then he focuses on combat and staying alive.
Knowing he is at a severe disadvantage of speed he attempts to base his defenses on what he can aniticipate his opponant to do instead of merely reacting to the attacks. Due to his foe's relative quickness, being forced into only reacting would rapidly get Roland killed.
Since his foe seems to have means of confounding his sight with camoflogue, Roland shifts his attentivness to his other senses.
The stiffness in Roland's limbs lessens slightly as he bounds out of the circle of blood, though his reactions remain slowed. Roland feels the forest about him; the trees, dirt, wind, sun, snow focus in the Duke's mind. The foe moves as one with the ancient forest, blending into its very being as no warrior of Amber could ever hope to do. Roland twists, dodging a sudden attack, his own ax sailing unmet through the cold air. A prick... the foe's blade scratches Roland - a minor shoulder wound.
Cherry blossoms. The scent of cherry blossoms is strong for a moment as the foe disappears again. Not a perfume, but the pure smell of living, unplucked blossoms. Roland feels the wind, its ebb and flow are more guided than usual - within it the foe moves.
The breeze turns and Roland swings his blade - too slow, but in anticipation of attack. The figure of blended color moves quickly back - a possible strike averted. "A sweet bounty defender." The voice flows on the air and through the bark of the trees. "Dance with me lord so that your bones will grow new roots."
Roland feels the movement of the forest about him - sensing what his eyes cannot see. The breeze moves again, towards Damien - a possible advantage opening, at the risk of the hunter's life.
Roland swung with all of his might and all of his skill at where he knew his opponant should be.
"Drop!" roared Roland. Hoping beyond hope that it would be enough to save Damien but also knowing that if he did not take this opportunity they would both be dead.
His guilt came and went as he struck out.
The ax cuts through the air. Damien freezes in terror - clearly thinking that Roland is aiming for him. The world seems to slow down, as Damien moves, seemingly as a quickly as a snail, out of Y'Geseth's path. Even as it would strike him, the air seems to solidify before Damien. Ice and steam flow as pale blood erupts from the wild foe. The trees seems shake, and snow blankets the ground again with heavy thumps. A wolf's cry not one of man, yet matched with another cry of man. Red blood splatters on a tree's bark, and on the pure white snow.
Damien shakes in pain, half pinned to the tree behind him, by the mighty ax. The wound is to his shoulder. Had Roland not yelled in warning, Damien would surely have cut in half. But the yell might have aided the enemy as well, enabling him to escape what might have been a fatal attack. Roland is sure he struck his foe, and his eyes lock onto a shape on the ground: an arm. The arm is buried in the snow, though Roland doubts a body is still attached to it. Pale, almost blue, blood stains the ground about it, and at Damien's feet.
Another breeze - not a great gale flows towards the Prince! Feathers and fur, a being of rage and fury flows with the air towards you. A wild thing, claws only half seen tear at you. A blade cuts and teeth bite. In his anger, the foe has come too close, now within reach of the Prince's fearsome hands.
Roland attempts to grapple with his foe. To rend, to tear, to bite, to twist, to mangle. This creature had attacked Roland without provokation. Roland let his rage fuel him in the destruction of his enemy.
"Today you have made me your enemy. Today will be your last day.," he howled as the great bear and the mighty wolf.
Anger and rage fuel the conflict as the two beings grapple. The being is strong but inferior to Roland's might. What the enemy lacks in raw power, it makes up for in speed and fury. Roland feels teeth in his flesh and returns the wound in kind while his hands seek a hand to snap the foe in two. Blood, smoke, wood, dirt, flesh, salt - tastes not born of any human. The enemy's body is cold, and the battle is like one against the elements.
Fur and feather under hand, Roland twists the foe again, and there is stillness. His back would not break like a human's. It was like wrestling with a snake, constantly writhing and twisting. The body in Roland's arms now lies dead, looking surprisingly human. The features are long and slightly feminine with a combination of feathers and fur decorating its skin. From the wound that separated its arm, a thin blue mist flows. The being's skin is as white as the clean snow, and there is almost no hint of color upon it, even in the eyes. Only the red blood of the Prince stains the lily white figure.
Though Roland does not know the face, the kind is familiar. The being strongly resembles the fair folk of Evermoor, who come in an endless spectrum of guises.
The craze of battle fading, Roland hears the moaning from Damien, now moaning on the ground where Y'Geseth cut into his shoulder. His wound is far more severe than Roland's - who suffers from numerous bites, cuts and bruises.
Roland inhales deeply... holds it... then lets it go with a whooosh.
He quickly surveys the area for other dangers then heads over to Damien to retreieve his ax... and his man.
After assessing Damien's wounds he tends them to the best of his skill. Once he secures his ax and is ceertain of Damien's condition he takes a feather from his fallen opponant and, almost absently, weaves it in with the others on his cloak.
He crouches by Damien,
"Come, Damien," he growls, "We must make haste to the city. For it is not the Queen's return that now spurns as on but your life blood."
He then fetches the horse for Damien to ride.
The slowness induced by the blood magic flows quickly away as Roland tends to wounded companion.
Damien huddles on the ground as Roland examines him, his breathing labored. His wounds are severe - shattered bone, sliced muscles - but with Roland's attentions, Damien will probably live, although it is doubtful his arm will ever work again. The field dressing will hold for now, but the man will need serious medical attention.
A chill wind frosts the nape of the Roland's neck as he plucks a feather from his fallen foe. The wind howls softly in the Prince's ear like a dead lover's whisper.
Damien remains silent, his thoughts turned inward as Roland helps him to the horse. Even at a breakneck pace, with the manipulations of Shadow, the castle and her city are many hours away.
"You will live," was all Roland said as he readied Damien for travel, "but we must make haste if you are to continue to do do."
Once Damien was secure he sets a rapid but wary pace towards the city. He tries every trick he knows and stretches his endurence and will to their maximum.
The horse is tired, slow at first, but after a few minutes new life comes to it. It responds to Roland as if the two had known each other before. Perhaps the same magic that had slowed his muscles also affected the horse.
Roland tears apart Shadows and reassembles them. The sky changes like the palette of a mad artist. Trees vanish and reappear. Snow turns to ice, and then melts, only to regrow as snow again. With the slightest push the Shadows seem to bend -- never before has Roland known such ease of movement this close to Amber. Soon, he will be at the very edge of Arden, with only a few mountain passes and the valley of Garnath before him. But why stop there? The Shadows are weak... perhaps they could be bent all the way to foot of Kolvir. Mother implied such things were possible. The enemy seems to follow and Roland feels the full power of the blood of Amber. Only the effort to keep the horse from panicing slows Roland's pace.
Another presence... not in the woods. A tingling in the mind. A Trump contact. For a half second you glimpse a figure in the woods looking upon you from behind a tree. A trick of the subconscious played out upon the fabric of Shadow. A powerful man in the garb of a King, crown upon his brow... Corwin? A trick of the mind... a by-product of the frailty of Shadow, your hell ride, and the Trump contact. Nothing more. The man is gone, but the contact persists.
Roland slows his ride to a safe stop. He considered ignoring the Trump Call but if it is a relative who he can deal with this might make things easier. Especially if the caller is at the castle.
He took a deep breath and steeled his mind as his mother taught him just in case it was someone who wished him ill, like possibly a relative, and accepted the Trump Contact.
The contact quickly solidifies as though it was already partially made. The vision slowly fills Roland's mind. Corwin... no, Brennus... he is inside... possibly the castle, although Roland can't be sure.
(To be continued in the shared thread: An Interrupted Ride)
As Roland moves through the Trump the essence of Damien and the horse touch briefly upon his own. Death touches him briefly - Damien's condition will be fatal without medical attention. There is also a wild primalness that pales in comparison to Roland's own nature. The fear and panic of the horse actually seem to calm with the proximity to Roland's mind; there is a sense of safety there.
Roland steeles himself in the passing.
Things are not as they should be.
(OOC: This is a slightly overdue post. This relates to Brennus's skills as a surgeon.)
Brennus's hands move with precision and confidence. Roland has seen many skilled surgeons in action and the Queen's son now ranks among them. Roland's instincts, and the tales told of the Prince, would indicate that these are skills developed not in the helpful training of a medical school, but on the field of battle. His knowledge of muscles and bones is likely only part and parcel of the skills developed under the tutelage of Benedict.
The Prince tends to Damien's wounds, and mends them as well, if not better, than Roland could himself. The outlook for the Damien is very positive, though his arm follows a less certain fate. All depends now on time and the healing.
Roland simply grunts as an acknowledgement to the Prince's skill. He does seem hopeful that the man recovers well.